


Just What the Doctor Ordered

by thewaythatwerust



Series: Peppermint and Pining [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: A scene of implied non-con intentions (but nothing happens 'on screen'), Accidental Fisting Kink Activated, Accidental breeding kink activated, Alpha Steve Rogers, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alpha/Omega, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Armpit kink - kind of but not really just go with it, Baker Bucky Barnes, Biological Impatives, Biological imperatives may be viewed as Dubcon, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Come Feeding, Come Inflation, Come Marking, Coming Untouched, Consensual Somnophilia, Dirty Talk, Dirty Talking Steve Rogers, Doctor Steve Rogers, Dubious Science, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Happy Ending, Heat Sex, Idiots in Love, Knotting, Knotting Dildos, Light Angst, M/M, MPREG (Mentions), Masturbation, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Medical Procedures, Mentions of Abortion (the possibility of having), Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Crumpets In Love, Omega Bucky Barnes, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Overstimulation, Past Medical Trauma, Porn With Plot, Praise Kink, Prostate Milking, Rut Sex, Scent Marking, Scenting, Stucky - Freeform, Top Steve Rogers, pet name overload
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-08
Updated: 2020-10-05
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 87,716
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24604204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaythatwerust/pseuds/thewaythatwerust
Summary: For the past month, Steve's been working up the nerve to ask the intriguing omega out. With dark hair and light eyes, smelling sweeter than sugar, Bucky had captivated Steve from the first moment he'd laid eyes on him. But Steve's waited too long, he's lost his chance. He can't date a patient.There will be no gathering the sweet omega into his arms, pressing into him, claiming him, hearing his own name spill from those perfect lips. No, Steve'll be forced to stand above Bucky, making the omega's pleasure peak while he watches, to be the cause of it but not the reason for it. Close enough to touch, but not in the way he wants, the way he craves.Unless...~~~Or, the one where the omega that alpha Doctor Steve has been lusting after needs his medical expertise to manage a heat, and things get a little complicated. Featuring oblivious crumpets in love and enough pining to fill a forest. Aka, "A Perfect Prescription" in Steve's POV.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Series: Peppermint and Pining [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1774630
Comments: 1011
Kudos: 1087
Collections: Creatures or ABO love and dynamics





	1. An Ounce of Prevention

**Author's Note:**

> i. Apologies to those of you that voted for preggo Bucky. That is coming after this, but since the votes were really evenly split, and a few good points were made that chronologically, having Steve's POV first would make more sense, I decided to go with this one to provide a more balanced/fuller picture before we progress in their relationship and knock Bucky up.
> 
> ii. As always, writing as I go. Hoping to stick to a weekly-ish update schedule. 
> 
> iii. The tags listed are for the story in its entirety, based on Bucky's POV, though more will be added as we progress through the chapters. Mainly kink tags, so heed them when I note that they've been updated!
> 
> iv. As always, your excitement feeds mine, and my desire to write, so if you have something to say or scream or cry, by all means... *gestures to the comment box* or come yell at me on tumblr @thewaythatwerust

“Yo, Rogers! Steve, Doctor Steve, Most Dreamy of All Doctors, how are you doing this fine, wonderful day? In a generous mood as usual? Ready, willing, and able to help your very best friend in the whole world out of a jam that is in no way his fault and thus should not be punished for?” Clint throws an arm over Steve’s shoulder before nodding to the man beside him. “Hey, Sam.”

Steve groans inwardly. He knows that tone, knows he’s going to be asked to do something he either doesn’t want to or _shouldn’t_ do. He also knows that he’s going to end up doing it anyway. Shaking his head, he ignores Clint and his very obvious attempts at manipulation. “I’ll see you again in twelve weeks, Sam. And remember, next time you go hang gliding…”

“Yeah, yeah, photos or it didn’t happen. I know, I got you, man. And good luck, Clint,” Sam laughs, giving them both a nod before heading to the reception desk. 

Steve’s smile dies on his lips as he looks to Clint, shrugging the arm off his shoulder before starting back down the corridor to his office. “What do you want this time?”

Falling into step beside him, Clint sighs. “I need to cut out early. P’s sick.”

Steve’s irritation leaves him in an instant. Stopping in his tracks, he turns toward his best friend. “Is it serious?”

“Probably not. You know how he is, always zipping around thinking he’s the energizer bunny, never taking a break. I think it's the treatments just finally catching up to him, but I wanna be there to rub his back while he’s puking his guts up if I can.”

“Yeah, of course. What do you need?”

“Wanda slotted an emergency appointment into my schedule for this afternoon - a new patient. I’ve managed to reschedule all my other patients, but we haven’t been able to reach this one to confirm the cancellation. It’s just a standard consultation and protein administration. So, on the off chance he does show up…”

Steve’s stomach seizes the opportunity to register its disapproval, grumbling loudly. His schedule is already full — overfull, actually — he’d needed to skip lunch just to keep on top of things. But he can’t say no to Clint any more than he could turn away an emergency appointment. He'll just have to figure something out, to find a way to make it work. “Yeah, no problem. If he shows up, I’ll take care of him.”

Clint claps him on the back. “You’re a good man, Rogers. Tomorrow night, pizza and beer, on me.”

“I’m gonna hold you to that.”

“The file is already on your desk. Knew you’d say yes; you’re too good for your own good,” Clint laughs, walking backward to the rear exit of the clinic. 

“One of us has to be. Go, take care of Pietro before I change my mind. Tell him I hope he feels better soon, and if he needs a real doctor to take a look at him, he knows where to find me.”

Clint gives a mock salute. “Aye, Captain. Though I’ll leave off the real doctor bit, we both know I’m the brains of this operation. You’re just here to look pretty and make sure we get our money’s worth out of those new slick-mats.” He smirks, slipping out the back door before Steve can reply. 

Steve glances back into the waiting room, confirming his next appointment hasn’t arrived before he makes a beeline for his office. He shuts the door behind him and sinks onto the chair by his desk with a sigh, the tension draining from his body as the cushion molds itself around him. God, these chairs were the best investment he’s made since buying the place. Clint had resisted his efforts to install them in every office, though, preferring his hard, but moveable, stools. Steve snorts. Brains of the operation, his ass. Despite knowing he shouldn’t, that he doesn’t have the time, he gives in to the temptation and lets his eyelids fall closed.

Fatigue creeps over him. He’d spent the night tossing and turning, unable to sleep for the scent slipping under his apartment door. Being an unbonded alpha in a building packed full of unbonded omegas is challenging enough, always feeling like he’s the last crust of bread in the center of a starving hoard. But during a heat cycle, it’s so much worse. The scent of desire, of _need_ , filling his head and triggering his instincts leaving him tired, irritable, and wanting. It's not exactly a new problem though, and over the years he has learned to weather the hormonal storms and come out the other side not too much worse for wear, all things considered. Except for... Well. He’s yet to find a way to dampen the desires one particular omega stirs... especially since he never uses blockers. 

Steve groans, dragging himself from his thoughts and rocking forward in his chair to grab the clipboard Clint had left on his desk, needing a distraction. There’s not much on the form, which is to be expected with a new client, he’ll have to fill that out when the omega arrives. It's just the usual name, phone number, and address… 

He stares down at the form, reading the address over and over. Steve knows the omega, _that_ omega, is in heat. The sugared scent has been haunting him, tempting him, for the past week — the very reason he'd been unable to sleep last night.  
  
He’d wanted to spend the night rutting in his bed, grinding his knot into the mattress and coming with that sugar scent filling his nose and fogging his head. He huffs out a harsh breath, his brain immediately calling _bullshit._ No, what he'd _wanted_ had been to storm down the stairs to the apartment a floor below his, pull the beautiful omega into his lap and let him take what he so obviously needed. To fill him, over and over, until they collapsed together in a sticky, sated mess of leaden limbs. And, fuck, how Steve had _wanted_.  
  
Instead, he’d stood under a cold shower until his skin was raised high with goosebumps and shivers were wracking his body before he'd dragged himself to bed, shoved his face under a pillow, and waited in vain for exhaustion drag him down into the sweet oblivion of sleep.

His eyes flick to the first line of the form. _James Barnes._ If James is his new patient, it means he's off-limits. Steve's gut twists painfully. For the past month, he's been working up the nerve to ask the intriguing omega out. With dark hair and light eyes, smelling sweeter than sugar, James had captivated Steve from the first moment he'd laid eyes on him. But now, Steve's waited too long, he's lost his chance.

There will be no gathering the gorgeous omega into his arms, pressing into him, claiming him, hearing his own name spill from those perfect lips. No, Steve'll be forced to stand above James, making his pleasure peak while he watches, to be the cause of it but not the reason _for_ it. Close enough to touch, but not in the way he wants, the way he craves.

Unless...

He presses the button for the reception desk on his phone, and a moment later, there’s a quick knock at the door before Wanda opens it and pokes her head inside the room. 

“What’s up, Boss?”

“Ah, this new patient, James Barnes. Did he, when he called, did he say it was an emergency, or did you slot him into Clint’s schedule because he had an opening? Do you think we could reschedule him for when Clint is back tomorrow?”

Wanda shakes her head. “Barton’s fully booked tomorrow. Double-booked in some slots, actually, thanks to him cutting out early today.” Dark red lips twist thoughtfully as she bobs her head to the side. “The guy did sound pretty desperate on the phone, but if he comes in, I can tell him Barton had to leave, maybe try and slot him in for next week?”

“No, no. That’s okay, Wanda, thanks. It’s okay. I was just—” Steve’s nostrils flare, his eyes unfocusing as a familiar scent reaches his nose. _James is here._ Ignoring the way his heart kicks up pace in his chest, he pulls in a calming breath through his mouth. “Can you bring him in, please?”

Wanda leans out of the room before ducking her head back in. “How did you—” She shakes her head again. “Man, you alphas and your freakish sense of smell. I’m glad us betas don’t have to put up with that.”

Steve just smiles tightly. Wanda’s not wrong; to be able to smell something so incredible, so intoxicating, but be unable to taste it, to have it, is both a gift and a curse. “When my next appointment arrives, just ring through so I know and I’ll be out as soon as I’m finished with Mister Barnes.”

“Sure thing, Steve. I’ll go grab him for you.” Wanda pulls the door closed with a soft click that echoes through Steve's nerves like a shot. 

He places the clipboard back on the desk. Sitting up straight, he runs his hands over his thighs repeatedly, trying to soothe invisible wrinkles from his pants... and trying to give the blood in his body a target other than where it’s already flowing. But after two seconds that feel like two hours, his nerves are jumping, and he lurches from the chair and starts pacing behind it. 

_Fuck._

Balling his hands into fists at his side, he tenses his body and wills himself still, dragging a deep breath in through his mouth. If he has any chance of getting through the next half an hour without completely embarrassing himself, and possibly opening himself up to a malpractice suit, he needs to get a grip. He’s a doctor, and James is just a patient. He can do this, it’s nothing he hasn’t done a million times before. It’s fine; he just needs to stay calm. Be detached and clinical. He grabs hold of the words, repeating them over and over like a mantra.

_Detached and clinical. Detached and Clinical. Detached and..._

The door opens and James steps through, wide-eyed and trembling, clutching at an oversized sweatshirt like a life preserver, and every alpha instinct in Steve roars to the surface. He wants to gather the omega in his arms, run his hands through those dark locks and murmur soothing words until the trembling stops and James is purring soft, contented noises against his neck. But light eyes edge wider still as they lock on Steve's, his mouth forming a pretty, perfect _‘O’,_ before his knees buckle under him. 

Steve’s moving in an instant, acting purely on instinct, catching the omega carefully before he can crumple completely. His hands wrap around the trembling body, lifting him and tucking him close to his chest as James’ head falls onto his shoulder, his whole body sagging against Steve, melting into his arms.

Steve’s heart throbs painfully in his chest as more blood scorches south. He clenches his jaw, biting back a curse as _detached and clinical_ burns to ashes inside him.


	2. A Full Work Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Trigger Warnings for brief mentions of possible/imagined non-con moments/thoughts/themes. ..idk. Just, consider yourself warned if sensitive.
> 
> ii aHhhhhhaksjd;lak;lsjads. So. This isn't entirely what I wanted to give you, but Ao3 ate that version this morning, so... ehh, twelve hours later, you get leftovers for dinner! Apologies. There's not much new ground covered in here since there's no fade to black from Bucky's Pov to take advantage of, but I did sprinkle in a few little cookie crumbs to be touched on later. 
> 
> iii. Don't @ me about the cock in the waistband thing. I've been informed by a very reliable source it's a thing guys do to hide boners? Idk, I don't have one, so... just go with it? lolol.
> 
> iv. As always, I love hearing from you guys, so feel free to comment or come yell at me on tumblr @thewaythatwerust
> 
> v. ..there may be mistakes in this. No beta and I'm tired of going over it. If you see any, feel free to yell at me and I'll fix it, but I mean.. don't go *looking* for them. 😛

Time comes to a grinding halt, along with Steve’s mind, as he stands frozen in place with his hands cinched around James’ waist. Every nerve ending in his skin feels rubbed raw, heightened, sparking at once in a symphony of lust as James’ nose presses against his throat, sliding slowly, _slowly,_ up his neck. Soft, hot breaths kiss his skin before he _feels_ it; James _scenting_ him.

White noise fills his vision and roars through his head as the omega rubs his nose over the sensitive gland behind his ear, and Steve’s whole body goes rigid. His cock throbs painfully, filling much too quickly, and he uses every last ounce of willpower in his body to stop himself from dragging his tongue over James’ sweet little gland, from stripping him down and tasting the rest of him, too. Fantasies of James clinging to his neck, legs wrapped around his waist, clenching tight around his knot as he claims the omega from the inside out sear themselves onto his closed lids.

But somewhere in the murky depths of his mind —logic dragged under by a riptide of lust— he knows James _isn’t_ reciprocating his interest. The omega isn’t being lured in by his scent; no, _he’s_ covered in blockers, so the only thing filling James’ lungs is peppermint. There are no alpha pheromones to stir desire and trigger instincts — the only arousal steeping the air, thankfully, belongs to James.

Still, the sharp inhale by his ear is shadowed by a soft whimper, and Steve’s fingers flex instinctively, digging into the smaller man’s waist hidden below the dark fabric of his hoodie. As if in answer, frantic fingers grasp his forearms, and it’s the biting pressure of blunt nails against his skin that finally jolts him back to reality. Pulling in a deep, slow breath, Steve waits for reason to rise above instinct, but it’s the slightly sour note of distress rising from James that finally burns away the remaining fog of lust and allows Steve to find his voice.

“Are you alright?” 

The curtain of dark hair falls away as James lifts his face, catching that plush lower lip between his teeth before nodding jerkily. But he doesn’t move away, doesn’t straighten, just continues to let Steve take his entire weight like his own legs are unable, with those beautiful eyes edged wide, looking every inch a skittish kitten, wholly overwhelmed and scared, taking shelter against Steve’s chest. 

Possessiveness swells inside Steve, rushing through him fast and fierce, and it takes a moment to fight the tide. He forces his lips up and open, trying his best for a reassuring smile, but lets it fall away quickly, not entirely sure he can keep the growl that’s growing inside his chest from bursting free without a cage. 

The temptation to stay here, holding this beautiful creature in his arms all day is overwhelming, but he knows he can’t; he has a job to do... and if he doesn’t move soon, James is going to _feel_ his reaction even if he can’t smell it. 

Carefully, he wraps his fingers around James’ wrist. Trying to ignore how perfectly his fingers fit around it, like it was _made_ for him, trying to pretend he’s not picturing himself holding them over James’ head as he drives into his body over and _over_ , he lifts it and drapes it gently around his own neck. James offers no protest as Steve secures an arm around his waist, tucking him close, ignoring the way they slot so perfectly together, and readjusts his weight before guiding him toward the desk. The anguish of loss that slices through as he lowers James into a chair is almost enough for him to gather the omega back into his arms. Goosebumps push through his skin, marking the trail of James’ hand as it trails across his neck and slides down his back before coming to rest, tucked with its twin, in the omega’s lap.

A gentle sigh slips from those perfect lips as James’ eyelids flutter closed, his long lashes falling down to kiss pink-tinged cheeks, his body finally starting to relax. Steve can’t tear his eyes away as he lowers himself into his own chair. The dark hoodie rises and falls steadily as James pulls in deep breaths, his agitation and the accompanying note of sourness slowly fading away.

Steve smiles softly to himself as he drinks in the beauty before him. Yeah, these chairs were definitely the best things he’s ever bought. 

“They’re amazing, aren’t they?” His voice is quiet, but James startles at the sound, jerking upright as his eyes fly open, meeting Steve’s gaze for a moment before darting away. The peace from a moment before is lost, James now looking more like a deer caught in the headlights than a voluntary patient at the clinic.

From the minute he’d first laid eyes on James, he’d known the omega was unlike any other he’s ever met. He’d been captivated, fascinated… smitten from the off. But all the mystery he’d been so drawn to is feeding his uncertainty now. Without knowing what’s going on inside James’ head, he doesn’t know how to best calm him. Should he move closer, make him feel safe and protected, or should he lean back and give him some space? Should he wait until James is comfortable enough to speak, or does he need a little prompting? In normal circumstances, Steve wouldn’t give it a second thought; he _knows_ omegas, knows how they react, well... most of them, obviously. But James has him feeling all kinds of keyed up and upside down. 

Hedging his bets, Steve pushes on, deciding that small talk is better than no talk at all. “Sometimes I’ll steal a quick nap on one during my lunch hour. I swear they’re more comfortable than my bed.” He’s wrong. _Because fuck! Bed? Seriously, Rogers?_ Now, all he can imagine is James in his bed... _naked, waiting, wanting._ He sets his jaw, trying to keep the corners of his lips turned up as James’ eyes finally move back to his.

Even though he’s already memorized every line on the form, he looks down at the clipboard, needing to clear the images from his head. He only allows himself a second before he wills his gaze back up, but almost caves again when he finds those light eyes all but swallowed up with black. He knows the arousal is heat-borne, but it doesn’t stop his body from reacting painfully.

“I’m Steve Rogers, and you’re James Barnes?”

“I kn— uh, I’m B-Bucky.” 

Warmth blooms in Steve’s chest and his fake smile falters, falling before his lips curve up in the genuine article — affection momentarily eclipsing attraction. The nickname is sweet... adorable, even. It suits James —Bucky— down to the ground. “ _Bucky._ It’s nice to meet you.”

“I didn’t know you were a, ah, um… I mean, have you worked here long?” Bucky stammers the question, his hands twisting in his lap.

Steve frees the pen from the clipboard and starts tapping it against the rigid plastic distractedly. “No. I just recently moved to the city. Almost a—”

“A month ago.”

Color blooms over Bucky’s cheeks as Steve cocks his head to the side, confusion joining the muddy mix of emotions already bubbling in his belly. The movement sends stray locks falling over his forehead, and he brushes them away absentmindedly, back and to the side, as he stares at Bucky, his mind racing.

“I, uh...Sorry, that was weird. I’m not, uh— It’s just you live in my building. You probably haven’t— but I, ah, I’ve seen you around,” Bucky shrugs nonchalantly, but a muscle ticks over his jaw and the admission sends the heat from his cheeks spreading down his neck.

 _Oh._ Steve’s mind picks up speed. Bucky _had_ noticed him? Or, noticed when he’d moved in, at least. Yet, he hadn’t approached him in the month since. Hadn’t shown any interest whatsoever, actually… the _only_ unbonded omega in the building _not_ to. Well, the only one under seventy. Which means… A heaviness settles in his stomach; _Bucky isn’t interested._ But maybe it’s for the best. Maybe in some twisted way, this is his silver lining. Now he doesn’t have to mourn lost possibilities; Bucky was never going to be his. 

He swallows the bitter disappointment with as much grace as he can muster and gives Bucky a small smile. “Sugar cookies.”

Bucky’s face goes lax, a pretty study in non-comprehension, blinking blankly. “...Sorry?”

“Every Thursday, your apartment smells like sugar cookies. You’re a baker, right?” As soon as the words are out of his mouth, Steve regrets them, realizing how his words could sound. He doesn’t want Bucky to think he’s been paying him _too much_ attention. 

Understanding flickers in light eyes as dark brows dart up in surprise, but Bucky doesn’t look scared. If anything, he looks strangely self-conscious. “Oh. Um, yeah. And you… tap dance?”

The anxiety in Steve’s body breaks on a snort of laughter. The idea of him trying to tap dance is so utterly ridiculous it has him frowning in confusion and smiling in amusement all at once. Maybe Bucky has him mixed up with someone else, someone without two left feet and a propensity to trip over them the minute music is involved. “Why would you think that?”

“The weird tapping noises at night.” 

Steve watches Bucky’s tongue dance inside his mouth, flicking and tapping against his teeth, making a series of almost-familiar sounds before swiping over that plush lower lip. 

“Ahh.” Eyes lingering on that shiny trail, Steve rubs a hand over the back of his neck, at the heat prickling his skin. “I didn’t realize you could hear that. It’s not dancing —that would involve much more crashing than tapping— it’s just me cleaning paintbrushes. I work with oils. The easiest way to clean the bristles is…” He traps the rest of his babbling behind his lips as he lifts his hand —the one not tapping out the beat of his anxiety against the clipboard— and mimes beating an imaginary paintbrush against the desk. He raises a shoulder in a would-be-casual shrug and tries for another smile, all the while wanting to curl up into a ball of mortification and hide under his desk, because _fuck,_ if Bucky could hear _that_ , what _else_ had he heard?

An awkward silence settles in the air between them, and Bucky crosses arms over his chest and winces. 

Steve lets the pen fall still, nostrils twitching. There’s an unfamiliar, acrid note beginning to permeate Bucky’s sweet scent. “Is everything okay?” 

“Yeah, I just— _ah!”_ Bucky gasps. He doubles over in his chair, tightening his hands into fists, grinding them against his stomach. The acrid scent burns sharper as he rocks on the chair, his face pinched with pain.

Steve jolts forward, twin instincts —doctor and alpha— fighting to take control. A strange sense of panic wraps around his throat like gnarled fingers, squeezing, but knowing his anxiety will only heighten Bucky’s, he forces his voice out, low, slow, and calm. “Talk to me, what’s happening?”

The harsh scent of distress, of pain, surges and expands until it’s the only scent blanketing the room and clinging to Bucky’s skin. His jaw clenches tight as he shakes his head, unable to speak, and Steve’s doctor’s instincts win his internal war. He slides his hand over Bucky’s wrist, finding his pulse, frowning as it jumps under his fingers.

“Just… cramps,” Bucky finally manages, grinding the words out and squeezing his eyes shut, his long lashes shining wetly.

Steve is up and out of his chair in a blink, moving behind Bucky. He places his hand on the sloped curve of the omega’s back, rubbing large, slow circles firm enough to be felt through the layers of clothing. He knows the added sensory input will split Bucky’s focus and should help a little with the pain. It’s not much, but it’s all he can do for now. He keeps count in his head, his brows knitting tighter together as the seconds continue to tick by with Bucky rocking and grunting in pain beneath his hand. Cramps this severe are never a good sign, especially not for this duration.

Finally, after almost a minute and a half —with every second stretching, swelling, swallowing an hour— the acrid scent ebbs and Bucky’s breathing starts to even out, the frantic rocking easing. When Bucky finally stills, Steve, with more reluctance than he’ll ever admit to, lifts his hand and straightens before returning to his own chair.

Too agitated to sit still, Steve picks up the pen again, tucks it between his closed fists, and pushes his thumbs against the barrel, feeling the plastic flex in his grasp. “Bucky, do you know the symptoms of extreme A1H-O protein deficiency?”

Dark locks dance over Bucky’s shoulders as he shakes his head. His eyes are wet and his cheeks flushed, and more than anything, Steve wants to reach out, to brush away those stray strands of hair clinging to his damp temple. He grips the pen a little tighter instead.

“I know you’ve been experiencing cramping, but have you had any severe muscle weakness, fatigue, chills, dizziness, nausea, or vomiting?”

Bucky’s eyes become hooded, wary, as he nods slowly.

A chill rolls down Steve’s spine. “Which?”

Bucky looks to the floor. His shoulders hunch forward as he wraps arms around himself, mumbling, “All of them.”

 _All of them._ That means… Steve drums the pen against the clipboard again, his anxiety playing out in stereo, the tapping doing nothing but notching his agitation higher. If Bucky has every symptom, his levels have to be _dangerously_ low. Steve sends up a silent prayer of thanks that Wanda had found an appointment for today, but then the small whispers in the back of his mind echo through him like a shot; he’d almost had her reschedule it. If he had... Steve’s chest clenches painfully.

Steve had been campaigning for years to try and increase the amount of awareness around protein deficiency for omegas. Too many just don’t understand the dangers associated with low levels, aren’t aware it can be life-threatening. But he knows, first hand, the devastation it can wreak. Bucky obviously has no idea how much of an emergency his appointment really is. 

Steve drops gaze back to his hands as he twirls the pen between his fingers. It’s a two-fold distraction: an attempt to calm himself, and a last-ditch effort to keep his hands busy and not reaching out to Bucky.

“Bucky, this is not something to play around with. Extreme deficiency can be fatal.” Steve swallows around the word roughly. “You need this protein, just like a diabetic needs insulin. Without it, your body can’t function properly, and it will systematically shut down.” 

Every word makes Bucky’s eyes edge wider until he looks so overwhelmed and scared that Steve’s resolve crumbles. He abandons the pen and leans forward, hesitating for a single heartbeat before clamping his hand lightly over Bucky’s knee. Those beautiful, crystalline eyes dip to his hand, but Bucky doesn’t move away.

“It’s not fair that being born with an O blood marker means you have to endure this condition where those of us with an A or B blood type don’t have to, but it is manageable. Artificial knotting was invented to help omegas, to save lives. You shouldn’t feel embarrassed at needing this treatment any more than you would at needing antibiotics to treat an infection.” 

Steve isn’t sure how much time passes before Bucky’s eyes lift, but when they do, the fear has disappeared, replaced by determination and something else that Steve can’t quite put a name to. Bucky nods before his lips pull up into a small, tight smile. It’s not much, but it’s enough for Steve… it’s more than enough.

“Okay.” Bucky’s voice is soft but firm, no longer trembling or stilted. 

A new scent simmers over his skin, slightly floral, still sweet, but... different— warmer, thicker, like lavender steeped in golden honey. It’s not the scent of heat or arousal... just _Bucky._ It’s pure and intimate and perfect, and Steve can't stop the corners of his lips tipping up, the alpha inside him _preening_ at settling the skittish omega.

…Until he remembers: _Bucky isn’t interested._

“Good.” Steve manages, _just,_ to keep the despair from his voice, though it sounds flat to his own ears. “Since this is your first visit to the clinic, I need to get some information. But before we start, this and then the procedure will take some time, do you need to tell your driver to wait, or to come back later?”

“My driver?”

“Friend, family, uber driver, or… partner?” Steve tries not to choke on the word. In all the time he’s been lusting after Bucky, building up the nerve to ask him out, it never occurred to him, not once, that the omega might not even be single. Suddenly he feels very, very foolish. Why _would_ Bucky be single? He tries to temper his dismay with logic — now he knows Bucky isn’t interested in him, it doesn’t matter if he has a partner... so why does it still _feel_ like it does?

“Oh, no, I took the subway.”

 _The subway._ Steve swallows against the horror surging up the back of his throat, nodding sharply before staring down, unseeing, at the form in his hands. Bucky took the _subway_ … smelling like _that._ Steve’s never been more grateful for the lack of alphas than right this second. Bucky could have so easily drawn the wrong kind of attention, and in no condition to fight off an insistent alpha… Steve’s gut turns over, souring sickeningly. Waves of panic flood his mind with a dozen different _what-ifs_ , each more horrific than the last… 

He pulls in another deep breath, pushing out the dark images from his mind with the slow exhale. Nothing happened, Bucky is here, he’s safe. Well, he will be after the procedure, at least. Steve drags his focus back to the task at hand with considerable effort. “Have you had this procedure done before, at a different clinic?”

Bucky doesn’t answer. His brows are drawn down, a mirror of those wide lips, his attention fixed on the thread he’s picking at on the cuff of his sweatshirt, nestled in his lap.

“—Bucky?”

Bucky scowls before he blinks the emotion away, arranging his features into careful indifference. “Uh, sorry. Could you repeat that?”

“I asked if you’ve had this procedure before?”

“Oh, no. This is my first time. Uh, with the machine, I mean, not my _first_ first time,” Bucky stammers, wincing.

Steve does his best not to notice how Bucky’s cheeks heat prettily and he squirms in his seat. “And how have you managed without it so far?”

“The, um, the _natural_ way.”

Jealousy burns up Steve’s throat at the thought of an alpha — _any other alpha_ — claiming Bucky’s body. _Mine._ The primal urge to claim Bucky, to mark him with his own scent, making the omega _his_ streaks through him so fiercely it steals his breath, his lungs constricting, burning. He lets the feeling seep into his muscles and bleed into his bones until he’s dizzy with it, waiting for the possessiveness to burn itself out. But the fire inside him just licks hotter, higher, threatening to consume him. Trying to extinguish the flames, he forces a harsh breath in, his chest swelling, filling with sugar-scented air, sending tremors coursing through his tense body. The feeling eases but lingers, refusing to relinquish him completely.

Curling his hands into fists, he tucks them down beside his legs and braces himself for the answer to the question he doesn’t want to ask but knows he has to. “Are you bonded?” The words come out darker than he’d intended, too low, too possessive, and he resets, fighting to keep his voice neutral. “Or were you previously?”

Bucky gives him an odd look but remains silent, shaking his head as his flush deepens. 

“So just through casual encounters?” Steve feels like he’s on a see-saw, soaring up to dizzying relief before crashing down into cold, hard dread. He isn’t sure what’s worse, the thought of Bucky being bonded to a single alpha or the idea of him entertaining a never-ending line of them. 

Bucky nods slowly, his lips twisting to the side. He shifts on his seat, more restless as the list of questions drags on.

“And before your partners seeded you, did they sample—”

Bucky’s face floods with color, but from embarrassment or anger, Steve’s not sure. “I don’t see why any of this is important,” Bucky bites off, eyes flashing defiantly. “I got by fine; I made do, but now…” He shakes his head. “Now, I can’t. So I’m here,” he snaps, though his tone, his body language, his _scent_ all scream he’d rather be somewhere, _anywhere_ , else.

Sourness rises from Bucky so quickly and pointedly that Steve leans back in his chair, giving Bucky space, not wanting to crowd him. He makes a note on the chart and waits until the bitter odor starts to clear. The frustration at the situation is completely understandable, even without being fuelled by embarrassment. By Steve’s reckoning, omegas —having to be queried and poked and prodded and suffer through invasive procedures just by virtue of their birth— deserve to fire up every now and then, even if he’s never seen one do it. Until now...

“I’m sorry, I know these questions are confronting and can be embarrassing, but having a detailed history helps me better understand the degree of exposure over an extended period of time, and will help me make a more informed treatment plan.”

At Steve’s apology, Bucky sags slightly in the chair, all traces of his anger burning out, leaving only confusion in its stead. “Treatment plan? I thought this is a ‘one and one’ type deal.”

“Usually it is, only one seeding per heat required, but based on what you’ve told me, from your infrequent and incomplete encounters, I don’t think your body has ever been at optimal levels. I’m not even sure it’s been at safe levels.” A new thought occurs to Steve; his medical brain finally overcoming primal diversions. “I’d like to do an ultrasound before we start the procedure, just to check there are no abnormalities. Aside from general health concerns, it becoming pregnant is ever something you might consider in the future, I’d like to check that prolonged deficiency hasn’t caused any complications.”

Steve wills his face to remain impassive even though the thought of Bucky pregnant makes him feel… he rubs a hand over his chest, not entirely sure _what_ the feeling inside him is. But he needs to get a handle on this… this _crush_ or whatever it is. His whole focus should be on helping Bucky, because given his obvious reticence at being here, he may not get another chance. 

A strange, wistful look passes over Bucky’s face, but then, like the sun emerging from behind a cloud, it passes, and he blinks rapidly as if coming out of a reverie. “Uh, yeah, that’s fine.”

“Great. We’ll pop you up on the exam table and take a look. I’d like to do a transanal scan if that’s okay with you? It’s an internal scan, so it’s an invasive method, but it will help me get a much better picture of what’s going on.” Steve lets familiar spiel fall from his lips without thought, feeling himself settle more confidently into his _doctor_ skin. He leans forward and claps his hands between his knees, pushing ahead while he’s on a roll. “I will talk you through everything I’m going to do before I do it, and if at any time you need to take a break or stop, you just tell me. You are the one in control here, and we don’t have to do anything you aren’t comfortable with, okay?”

Bucky looks a little nervous, but nods. “Okay.”

Steve stands and motions toward the examination table. Clint must have readied all the supplies before he’d left, when he had put the clipboard on the desk, because everything Bucky will need for his session is ready and waiting. He feels his resentment toward his best friend lessen a notch. “Are you okay to walk?”

“I think so.” 

Bucky unfolds himself from his chair, swaying slightly as he stands. Steve slips his hand under Bucky’s elbow, offering gentle support as they make their way slowly to the table; he’s not sure he can deal with having to scoop the omega up if his knees give out again... or be able to let him go again if he does. 

As soon as they make it to the table, Steve lets his hand fall away, curling into a fist and pushing into his coat pocket. The words he’s said a thousand times start rushing from his mouth automatically, and he’s grateful to not have to stumble over what to say... for the next thirty seconds at least.

“Get undressed and put the gown on, it closes at the back. There’s a selection of condoms to choose from to help mitigate mess later. Your chart didn’t note any allergies, but there are latex-free options if you need them. The bag is there for any biowaste you’d like to dispose of — pads, underwear, and so forth. Replacements will be made available to you after your procedure. You can leave your clothes on the chair if you’d like. Once you’re ready, just hop up onto the table, scoot down to the end, and place your feet in the stirrups. I’ll be right out here, so give me a shout when you’re ready, and we’ll get started.” Without waiting for Bucky to reply, Steve grabs curtain hanging from ceiling tracks and drags it around the table.

He can hear the telltale sounds of shuffling, of Bucky undressing and following instructions, as he moves to collect the portable ultrasound machine and tries his best not to let his mind conjure up visuals to go with the soundtrack.

Halfway back to the table, the scent hits him like a physical blow, and he jerks to a stop, slapping a hand over his face, covering his nose and mouth. The sound of the biobag crinkling closed covers the moan that’s punched from his chest as understanding dawns slowly in his pheromone-addled brain. Bucky must have removed whatever scent-blocking underwear he’s been wearing, and _Jesus, fuck!_ The scent from last night had been overwhelming, the scent when Bucky had arrived had been unbearable, but this…

 _Want, need, take, claim, knot, come_ throbs through him, and he draws a shuddering breath behind his hand, the make-shift barrier doing nothing to dilute the scent or its effect on him. Bracing himself against the potent aroma, he shifts, using the machine as cover in the slim chance Bucky pokes his head out from behind the curtain. Reaching down as discreetly as he’s able, he bites back a groan as he readjusts his cock —hard, wet, and _aching_ — and thanks everything holy that he’d chosen slacks instead of jeans this morning. If small mercies are all he’s going to get today, he’s going to grab onto them with both hands and be grateful for them.

Bucky’s soft curse draws his attention, and, walking slowly and stiffly, he finishes wheeling the trolley to the curtain by the end of the table. “Do you need a hand with anything?”

“Uh, I’m good.” Bucky’s voice is a high, surprised squeak before he clears it, and Steve can almost feel the cringe from the other side of the curtain. 

There’s more shuffling, then crinkling, and then finally, silence. Steve tries to keep time with his foot, but loses count as images of Bucky getting himself ready sneak into his mind. Is he naked? Has he rolled the condom over his cock? Is the gown sticking wetly to the back of his thighs? Steve’s knuckles turn white as he grips the handle of the trolley. It could be a minute or an hour, but still, nothing but silence sounds from the other side of their fabric divide. “Let me know when you’re ready.”

“Ah, almost.”

There’s more crinkling, and then the telltale squeak of the exam table has new images flooding Steve’s mind. Of Bucky climbing up on the table, his slick ass sliding down over the mat, placing his feet in the stirrups, and spreading himself open, waiting for Steve to knot him. ...with the machine. Steve runs his tongue over his suddenly dry lips, the desperate urge to fill Bucky making him leak over his belly. He settles for filling the silence, instead.

“The pad under you is a miracle of engineering, the latest development in Omats from Stark Industries. They’re super lightweight and incredibly absorbent. They seem to ease the minds of omegas stressed about making a mess.” Steve rolls his eyes at himself. He’s batting a thousand today, because really?. _A mess?_ God, if Barton were here now to see him tripping over his words, starry-eyed and hard as a rock, lusting over a patient, he’d never hear the end of it. ...But if Barton _were_ here now, he wouldn’t be _in_ this position. He makes a mental note to drink his weight in beer tomorrow, the expensive stuff. 

“Okay. Ready as I’ll ever be,” Bucky calls out softly in a tone that suggests the polar opposite.

Steve blows out a deep breath, bolstering himself for what’s awaiting him on the other side of the curtain before he grabs it and sweeps it back. He expects those wide eyes staring up at him tremulously, but Bucky’s eyes are fixed resolutely on the ceiling, his arms are wrapped tightly around his body and his feet… Even through the haze of arousal fogging his head, Steve can’t fight back his grin as he parks the trolley at the end of the bed. Carefully, he reaches out and wraps his hands around Bucky’s ankle where it’s pressed up against his ass, lifting it and placing it gently in the empty stirrup. 

Bucky jerks at the touch, his eyes darting between Steve and his foot and back again before he winces, flushing so brightly it looks painful. “Sorry.” 

Steve waits a moment, but when Bucky makes no move to reposition his other leg, he repeats the action and places it in the correct position. Out of the corner of his eye, Steve can see the gown —no longer stretched over Bucky’s thighs— flutter down and settle over his stomach… and the impressive erection resting atop it. 

The sight of Bucky, the _scent_ of him, knowing he’s hard and wet and _wanting,_ is making Steve light-headed with _raw need_. He wants to bow over the omega, to rip the gown off with his teeth, and sink them into Bucky’s body. To lick into his wet hole before locking his knot inside. 

A strange scraping sound filters through the pounding in his head— insistent, continuous, like the annoying buzzing of a fly. Searching for the source of the noise, Steve’s eyes land on Bucky’s hands as he grates his knuckles across the mat on the table, over and over and _over_ , panic visible in every twitch, every movement. 

Steve’s alpha instincts, already triggered, rear up, clawing to take control, to gather Bucky in his arms, to surround him, soothe him, save him from his fears. But the only threat to Bucky is _him. His_ tension seems to be triggering Bucky’s, or at the very least, feeding it. As if intrinsically linked, every time _he_ gets worked up so does Bucky… just not in the same way.

He knows there’s no reason to touch Bucky again... none except that he _wants_ to, and he can’t find reason enough to stop himself. He just hopes Bucky can’t feel the slight tremble in his hand as it lands on his arm. 

“This is completely your choice, but with your consent, I’d like to administer a temporary, injectable scent-blocker. It lasts for roughly eight hours, and given the stage of your cycle and the potency of your scent, I think it would be a good idea for your safety.” _Please say yes, please say yes._ The words repeat themselves, like a scratched record, a chant, a prayer. “It would also be a kindness for any alphas in a twenty-mile radius—” he murmurs before frowning, realizing exactly how that sounds. “—but that’s a very distant, secondary concern.”

Bucky’s _safety_ is his foremost priority; _he_ can get through the session without them if he has to, he’ll find a way, whatever it takes, but the only way Bucky is getting back on the subway without blockers is if Steve is shadowing his every step. Bucky has already tempted fate one too many times today.

Steve tries to ignore the way Bucky’s eyes dart to his pants, only narrowly resisting the urge to look down himself, to check his readjustments have held. The swell of his knot is probably visible, but there’s not much he can do about that besides holding his coat closed, and that’ll just draw more attention, not less. He tenses his body, fighting the instinct to do it anyway, and waits for Bucky’s answer.

“Bucky?”

Bucky’s eyes drag back up to his. “Uh. Yeah, that’s okay.”

Relief spikes through Steve, showing on his lips as he nods and turns away quickly, letting his gaze drop to his pants once his back is to Bucky. He half expects a wet patch to be soaking through his shirt where his cock is leaking against his belly, held up by the waistband of his pants. But his shirt is dry, and the loose-fitting pants don’t show more than he can explain, and he lets his shoulders fall before rolling them, trying to unknit the tension. 

He can feel Bucky’s eyes on him as he opens drawers and cupboards, working quickly to gather and prepare the necessary supplies, muscle memory kicking in. The injectable blockers are more easily absorbed than the tablet form, and though this type don’t last as long, they’ve fewer side-effects and should be enough to protect Bucky until he gets home. Steve flicks the syringe to free any air bubbles and depresses the plunger, waiting until clear liquid beads at the bevel before placing it into the tray with the rest of the gathered items. Grabbing a pair of gloves from the dispenser on the wall, he snaps them on, grabs the tray, and makes his way back to the table. The sooner he can no longer smell Bucky, the sooner he can regain control of his body and, hopefully, his mind.

Bucky’s eyes land on the tray as it’s placed on the table, and he leans forward, eyes fixing on the syringe. He blanches, his apprehension palpable, the first time Steve’s seen the color _drain_ from his face. He can’t suppress the grin watching Bucky’s eyes go comically —adorably— wide. 

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he reassures Bucky, opening the sterile alcohol wipe. Using one hand to push the sleeve of the gown up onto Bucky’s shoulder, he uses the other to swipe the swab over the newly exposed skin of a lean but muscular upper arm, his mind now trying to picture what else is hiding under that stupid, mint gown. He grinds his teeth, frustrating setting him on edge. So what if _detached_ flew out of the window the second he had Bucky in his arms? He can still at least _try_ for _clinical._ “You’re going to feel a sharp scratch and then a little heat. Just take slow, deep breaths, and it’ll be over before you know it.”

At Bucky’s nod, Steve presses the needle into smooth skin, carefully guiding it deeper into the muscle beneath. From his peripheral vision, he can see Bucky wince, but it’s fleeting, and assured he isn’t in any pain, Steve starts to depress the plunger slowly, watching the chemicals drain into Bucky’s body.

“Is there a reason you don’t use blockers? I understand why you would choose to abstain at home even if there are still risks attached, but venturing out in public without them, especially in the middle of a heat, can be dangerous. While there may not be many alphas around, there are still some that adhere to old world views.”

The energy in the room shifts in an instant, Bucky’s agitation souring the air again, and Steve wonders if he said something wrong. The last thing he wants to do is scare Bucky, to make him more anxious than he already is, but surely he _knows_ what could have happened on his way here; he _has_ to. Bucky can’t think it’s down to sheer, dumb luck that he’s been able to find enough alphas over the years to get by, he must know it’s the other way around; _the alphas had found him._

“They make me sick. The tablets, at least,” Bucky mutters, a dark look crossing his face.

Steve can tell there’s something Bucky isn’t saying, but now that he’s finally opening up and settling down, he doesn’t want to push the point. Instead, he hums thoughtfully. The syringe is almost empty now, so any side-effects should be starting to appear if Bucky’s going to have any. And if he does, Steve has the means to fix them. “And how are you faring with the injection? Any reaction?”

Bucky pauses as if considering before shaking his head. “So far, so good.”

Withdrawing the needle from Bucky’s arm, Steve holds a cotton ball to the injection site, pressing firmly while he discards the now empty syringe into the tray. “Injectables can’t be prescribed for home use, but you’re welcome to visit the clinic to get them, or, I could, ah...” Steve bites his lip. Alarms are blaring in his head, accompanied by neon flashing warning signs: _Don’t do it, don’t do it…_ He needs to _extricate_ himself from Bucky’s life, not find _more_ excuses to be around him. What’s next? Becoming best friends? Being his wingman, trying to help him pick up an alpha for his next heat?

Steve grabs the bandaid and opens the packet awkwardly. Carefully, he lifts the cotton ball away, checking there’s no bleeding before smoothing the band-aid in place. As if drawn by magnets, his hand finds its way back to Bucky’s arm, and he can’t help himself. “I’m happy to administer them to you at home if you’d like.” He pushes the words out in a rush before his nerve falters.

The overwhelming sugar scent starts to ease, though it still lingers subtly on the air around them. Steve takes a deep breath and waits, but the alpha instincts thundering within him aren’t receding at all. He had expected his desire to fade with the scent, but he still feels it, the strange pull inside him, drawing him to Bucky, like a moth to the moon.

“Uh, I didn’t know the clinic offered house calls. I don’t think I could afford it,” Bucky stammers, peeking up at him from under dark lashes.

“The clinic doesn’t, but… I pass your door every day on the way to mine, so it’s not exactly out of my way.” Steve tries to keep his hand from trembling as he lifts it and rolls down the gown sleeve. “As for payment, how about you sneak me a little of your sugar, and we’ll call it even.”

“M-my sugar?”

Steve grabs the tray and turns away before Bucky can see the heat burning over his cheeks. _Oh, shit._ “Some of your sugar cookies. They smell amazing.” He cringes at the rasp in his voice. 

Stalling for time to collect himself and to find a way out of the hole he’s just dug himself, he disposes of the used supplies slowly before stripping off his gloves and pushing them into the biowaste bin one at a time. He closes his eyes and wills himself to calm down. Bucky probably hadn’t even caught his slip of the tongue. He could play it up, pretend he meant it in a completely innocent way. It’s only weird if he makes it weird, right? Hastily-formed plan acquired, Steve charges on. “I know I shouldn’t say this, being a doctor and all,” he says quietly, in what he hopes is an _‘I’m talking about eating your baking and not drinking down your slick’_ kind of way, “...but I have a bit of a sweet tooth.” He snags a new pair of gloves and tugs them on as he returns to the table.

Steve isn’t sure how he expected Bucky to answer that exactly, but the silence in the room is deafening. He had made it weird. Unable to hold Bucky’s gaze —because it may be his imagination, but god, Bucky looks like he _knows_ what’s going on in his head— Steve sets about preparing the ultrasound, sliding a sterile sheath over the wand. The distraction works, for both him and Bucky. It’s a thin but intimidatingly long device, and he smiles at Bucky’s grimace when his eyes lock onto it. It’s the usual reaction of omegas seeing the wand for the first time, the look that says they’d rather escape through the window naked than have Steve come anywhere near them with the rod. 

“It’s never as bad as you’re expecting. You shouldn’t feel any pain at all, but if you have discomfort or you just want me to stop, just say the word.”

“What’s the word?”

There’s a lilt in Bucky’s voice, a thread of sarcasm, but it’s tangled up in something else, something ominous, and suddenly, Steve can’t dismiss the unsettling feeling that Bucky has been in a situation where words weren’t enough. Bile rises at the back of his throat, and he reaches out, instinctively taking Bucky’s hand in his. Moving closer, needing Bucky to see the truth in his eyes, Steve lowers his voice, just loud enough to reach Bucky’s ear. “ _Stop_. It’s all you _ever_ have to say.” 

Something shines in those light eyes before it’s blinked away, and a glimmer of trust flickers to life, so vulnerable and open that Steve’s heart stutters in his chest. He rubs a thumb over Bucky’s hand, wishing he could say something to let Bucky know he would _never_ do anything to hurt him, that he would earn that trust. Instead, he removes his hand and nods toward the large anatomical poster of the male omega reproductive system hanging on the wall beside the exam table. Bucky turns toward it, and Steve is immensely grateful for the distraction. His eyes are burning, prickling with emotion he absolutely cannot afford right now, certainly not one he can explain to Bucky. By the end of this consultation, he’s going to be an absolute wreck… if he can even hold out that long. No, he can do this. He just needs to be focused. To be clinical.

_Clinical. Clinical. Clinical…_

“I’m going to insert this wand into your anus and up the birth canal into your womb. Some omegas find themselves getting aroused and get embarrassed. I wish they wouldn’t. To be frank, with male omegas, the more aroused you are, the smoother the procedure goes.” 

_For you, at least…_

“Sexual arousal engorges the tissues of your reproductive tract, and that dilation forces the passageway to your intestines to constrict, lets your body switch gears. The twin channels aren’t designed to work at the same time, much like urination and ejaculation cannot occur simultaneously.” 

_Do not think about Bucky coming. Do not think about… Fuck._

He bites back a groan and shifts his focus to the ultrasound machine, switching it on and setting parameters.

“Arousal also prompts your body to produce more lubrication, which is never a bad thing where object insertion is involved.” 

How has he never realized before how fucking obscene this whole pitch is? He’s the one giving it, the one that’s given it a thousand times before, and yet, after actually hearing it, as if for the first time, the only thing he wants to insert into Bucky is... 

Fuck. _Fuck!_

Not able to stop himself, _again,_ he reaches out to touch Bucky’s arm like he’s an electrical current looking for grounding. “Any questions or concerns before we begin?”

Bucky’s face is flushed pink as he turns away from the poster and locks eyes on Steve. He shakes his head. “All good.”

Steve keeps his hand in place as he takes the wand in the other and guides it between Bucky’s spread thighs, watching it disappear under the gown. There’s a gentle nudge as the wand connects with Bucky’s ass, and he maneuvers it blindly, going by instinct, moving it over and up, exerting a little extra pressure until—

Bucky gasps, and Steve stops the forward pressure. “Is this okay? Does it hurt?”

“Uh, no, it’s f-fine.” Bucky’s voice is low, breathless, and Steve wonders what his name would sound like wrapped in those lips right now. Would it be a deep, desperate, broken rasp? Or a high-pitched, needy whine? Steve’s hand convulses on Bucky’s arm before he forces his fingers to relax. 

Pushing the wand in deeper, Steve can feel —can hear— how wet Bucky is, the obscene sounds entering his ears and traveling straight to his cock, sharp jolts of pleasure-pain. Still, he goes slowly, wanting to able to stop if Bucky asks him to, if he feels any pain. But if the quickening rise and fall of his chest, or the way those narrow hips just bucked up is any indication, pain is the _last_ thing Bucky is feeling right now. Steve lifts his hand from Bucky’s arm and places it on his hip instead, pressing down gently, just enough to keep him flat on the table as he adjusts the angle of the wand. 

“Just one more minute,” Steve murmurs thickly, Bucky’s obvious arousal increasing his own. 

When the wand is in place, he drags his hand from Bucky’s hip and moves it to the machine. He taps buttons and twists dials, setting points, measuring the size of Bucky’s womb on the grainy screen. He frowns at the numbers before resetting the dials and re-measuring. Changing the angle of the wand and the depth, Steve measures one final time, but still, it’s the same result. 

Bucky’s uterus _looks_ fine; there’s no scarring, no masses, everything looks normal… except for the _size._ It’s almost like Bucky’s womb hadn’t fully developed, or developed late, or… had shrunk? But that’s... not possible. 

Steve stares at the screen. Everything seems perfectly healthy, size aside, and that _shouldn’t_ cause any issues, but he makes a mental note to discuss additional tests at the end of the session, just in case. He can feel Bucky’s body drawing tight again, feel his anxiety returning. It won’t do any good to make him more stressed before they get to the actual procedure. There’ll be time enough later.

Having seen enough to know Bucky’s deficiency hadn’t done irreparable harm —which is more than can be said of a lot of omegas these days— he slowly slides the wand free. Chasing the dark thoughts away, he forces some cheer into his voice. “All done. That was perfect. You did great, Bucky. Everything looks good; there’s no abnormalities, masses, or scarring. If you decide you want children later, you should have no problems conceiving.” Guilt settles in his belly as he turns away from the table, stripping the sheath off the wand and setting it back into place. But it’s not like he’s hiding anything, he’s going to inform Bucky fully the minute the procedure is done, and he’s comfortable again; when he’s better able to process the information. Steve peels his gloves off before moving the machine away from the table. 

There’s a small soft sound from behind him, a whimper, and it takes every ounce of his strength to not turn back, knowing it’s a sound of pleasure, not pain. Bucky isn’t the only one who’s having trouble containing himself. Steve disposes of the sheath and gloves before pulling another set from the dispenser. He knows what comes next—dread coils around the base of his spine.

He’s never experienced this before, never had feelings for a patient. He’s always prided himself on his professionalism, never once coming anywhere remotely close to crossing a line. But now... he can’t _see_ the lines, all he sees is _Bucky._ And he’s going to watch Bucky be knotted, hear him moan, watch him come. It feels so wrong to _want_ Bucky as he does, to be given a glimpse into something so intimate, to see Bucky feel the pleasure he so desperately wants to be the cause of, the reason for.

It’s a torturous reminder of what comes from cowardice; fortune favors the brave and yearning torments the weak.

He tugs on the gloves before returning to the table, coming to a standstill, staring down at Bucky. His eyes are closed, long lashes sleeping on lightly-flushed cheeks, his hair forming a dark halo around his head. He’s so beautiful Steve’s chest _aches._

A twitch of the gown draws Steve’s attention, his eyes darting to it on impulse and his hand following suit. He changes course quickly, bringing it down on Bucky’s hip as realization dawns; it was Bucky’s cock twitching under the gown, and he’d almost… A shiver trembles down his spine. 

Squaring his shoulders, shrugging off the shackles of his own need, he focuses on the need that _matters,_ he focuses on Bucky. “You’re doing great. We’re almost done, and this last part is the easiest. Are you ready?”

Bucky’s eyes open, filled with steely determination as they fix on his. His chin notches higher before he nods. “Ready.”

The quiet knowing, _the absolute certainty_ that today is going to be both the best and worst day of his life slowly unfurls inside of Steve as he gives Bucky a small smile, willing the thumping in his chest to slow. He’s glad at least one of them is ready, but it absolutely isn’t him.


	3. Healing Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Sorry for the wait, I wanted to post the whole of Steve's POV for the same time frame that was covered in Bucky's, but... yeah, no. Bucky kept passing out, leaving Steve with all the heavy lifting (literally), and thus, the chapter count blew out by a lot more words than expected. So, uh, you get half a chapter's worth. The other half won't be as long of a wait, though. 
> 
> ii. No smut portkeys for this one. Sorry, it's kind of ... all over the place.
> 
> iii. As always, come scream in the comments or flail or question or moan, it's all good, all responses are valid and apprecaited! Or, come hang out for sneak peeks and gif-abuse on tumblr @thewaythatwerust.

Steve clenches his fist around the PDR, sending up a silent prayer of thanks when his hand remains steady. “Before I can administer the protein, I need to know exactly how much your body needs. To do that, we use this,” he lifts the reader into Bucky’s sight-line. “This will measure your arousal fluid and—”

“ _Arousal fluid?_ ” Bucky chokes the words out, face filling with color once more.

The look of total mortification on Bucky's face breaks the tension thrumming through Steve’s body, amusement momentarily rising to the fore. He can’t stop the smile splitting his lips as he gazes down at Bucky. God, how can someone be so incredibly sexy and so fucking adorable all at once? 

“Sorry, technical terms kind of come with the territory. I can use colloquialisms if you’d prefer. Does _slick_ make you more comfortable?” It might just be his imagination, but Steve would swear the color in Bucky’s cheeks intensifies as he grimaces and scrubs his head on the table, the long locks catching and twisting together on the mat. 

“No, it’s fine,” Bucky grinds out, the look on his face screaming the exact opposite of his lips.

Overcome with the sudden, inexplicable urge laugh, Steve ducks his head until he traps the hysterical bubble of laughter in his throat. The absurdity of this whole situation hits him at once, and he turns the device around in his hands, checking the cords are correctly secured in an effort to divert his brain and thwart his inappropriate response. He casts his memory adrift, dredging up every medical journal article he’s ever read, trying to recall if any cases of extreme sexual frustration had resulted in a complete mental or emotional breakdown. With his luck, he’ll be the first. 

Dragging in a deep breath, he lifts his head to find Bucky staring at him expectantly. Ah, shit, where was he? Oh, right. “As I was saying, this will measure the level of deficiency from your arousal fluid.” Bucky’s face distorts again, and it takes a grand effort for Steve to keep the fresh wave of laughter locked behind his lips. He feels light-headed, though that's probably from the fact his brain has been deprived of adequate blood supply since Bucky had entered the office. Shaking his head in an effort to clear it only results in a wave of dizziness sweeping through him. "The reader is connected to the machine through those cords.” Steve nods towards the three black wires and watches as Bucky’s gaze traces them from the reader to the machine Steve had wheeled in and set up between Bucky's spread thighs only moments before. “It will automatically calculate how much A1H-O your body needs.”

Bucky’s gaze flicks back to the wand and sticks, and Steve has the distinct impression Bucky’s avoiding holding his gaze. “How long does it take?”

“Sixty seconds at the most.”

The tension in Bucky's shoulders eases, and they drop a little as he nods. “Okay.”

Steve lowers the wand and runs a sterile wipe over it before reaching between Bucky’s thighs and guiding it toward his ass. He keeps his eyes trained on Bucky’s face, watching his eyes drift closed as he tilts his head back, exposing the long column of his neck. The smoldering embers of desire, all but doused by his earlier flood of affection, spark and catch and burst bright inside him once more. _Claim, claim, claim._ Visions of sinking his teeth into the newly displayed flesh throbs through his veins and pulses down into his cock. Distracted, Steve startles as the wand butts up against Bucky’s ass, missing its target completely. He snaps his eyes closed, shifting his focus, and going by instinct he finds the slick opening immediately. Relying on muscle memory to guide the wand in deep enough, he thumbs over the small button at the base of the device to turn it on.

He keeps count in his head as he drags in a calming breath, feeling his chest rise and his pulse slow, before pushing it out and repeating the process, waiting for the reader to do its job. At forty-seven seconds, Steve has wrangled his body into some semblance of control, and as if to reward his efforts, three shrill beeps mark his current task complete.

He slides the reader free from Bucky’s body carefully, training his mind blank, not thinking about how close his hand is to… well. On autopilot, he unhooks the wand and moves to place it on the tray waiting on the bench above the supply cupboards, running the length of the far wall in his office. Cleaning will come later.

He drums his fingers on his thighs as he returns to the machine, staring down at the LCD screen, waiting. Every second feels like an hour, and the weight of Bucky's gaze on him prickles over his skin. But the urge to turn and meet those beautiful eyes, to try and dredge up a reassuring smile, falls away as the screen in front of him flashes red. 

_A1H-O deficiency level: Critical. 9% TPT per BV._

Ice rolls through his veins and his stomach twists painfully. Nine percent. That’s… _fuck._ The lowest levels he’s ever seen were more than _three times_ higher than that. He doesn’t know how Bucky is still… 

Steve swallows around the lump in his throat and turns back to Bucky, trying to keep his face devoid of emotion, one last attempt at clinical and detached. “Your levels are dangerously low. I think the safest thing to do is to transfer you to the hospital. I’d like to run more tests and make sure your body—”

The red in Bucky’s cheeks drains away, leaving him ashen. “I’m not going to hospital.”

“You may need more help than I can provide here, Bucky. I’ve never seen readings like this, _ever._ ”

“But…” Bucky’s hands grip the gown at his waist, twisting it into tortured spirals “you’ll _try_ , right? You can try the machine and see if it works?”

Bucky’s anxiety is palpable, those light eyes going big and round, pleading, but what he's asking for isn't in Steve's power to give. “I’d feel much more comfortable if we admitted you—”

“ _No._ That isn’t an option. I’m not — I can’t…” The plastic gown rustles quietly as the fists gripping it begin to tremble.

Steve tries to keep his voice calm. He needs to make Bucky understand how serious this is, that he isn't equipped to deal with such an extreme case, but he doesn't want to scare him more than necessary. “Bucky, this machine was made for regular use. The A1H-O protein is a concentrated version of its natural counterpart, but it was created to fulfill an omega’s needs for a _single heat._ With your levels, you’re going to need an incredibly high dose, and the only way to do that is multiple seedings. The machine just wasn’t designed to administer such a large amount in one go.”

“That’s fine. I don’t care. How many will I need?” 

Steve stares at Bucky, taking in the wide, wet eyes and shaking hands before lingering on the bright white teeth bruising into a blood-red lip. He should say no, should tell Bucky the hospital is the only option and end the conversation. But the words stick in his throat, and he does some quick calculations in his head, instead. His heart pounds painfully in his chest as he reruns the math. Bucky is staring at him expectantly, teeth still chewing on the tortured lip, and Steve clears his throat, wincing as the rough sound booms in the tense silence. “Ah… ten.”

“ _Ten?”_ Bucky squeaks. His mouth drops open, and Steve only narrowly resists reaching out to soothe his thumb over the puffy, abused lip. Emotions play out in slow motion over Bucky’s face, Steve following each revelation in rapt silence, until finally, Bucky nods, as if to himself, and refocuses on Steve. “I — okay. So, is that… one a day for the next ten days, or…?”

Steve's chest aches at the hopeful tone to Bucky’s voice. If only it were that simple. “No. You need the protein as quickly as possible, but it’s a balancing act. Too much too quickly can put excessive strain on your body, but if we give it to you too slowly, your body may shut down before it gets enough to bring up your numbers. You, uh, you’ll need three doses today, three tomorrow and two for each two days following.” He sighs and waits for Bucky to see the impossibility of the situation, to agree to be transferred to the hospital. Steve wonders idly if he could have Wanda re-arrange his schedule so that he can take Bucky himself. Given his obvious reluctance, Steve very much doubts he’d consent to be taken by ambulance. 

“Okay.”

Bucky’s soft voice breaks through his musings, and Steve blinks stupidly at him for a moment, confusion whirling through him. Excellent job at explaining the gravity of the situation, Rogers, he berates himself silently. Maybe he'd added a little too much padding to the kid gloves, but handling Bucky seems to be a bit of a balancing act, and he feels like everything is a breath away from crashing around him. Maybe he _needs_ to scare Bucky, at least a little, to make him realize trying to deal with this at the clinic just isn't safe.

“Bucky, this may be uncomfortable for you if you’re not used to complete knottings. The machine is designed to be quick, efficient - direct stimulation of your prostate gland to trigger an orgasm. It’s intended to be used once per heat, not three times in a row. The over-sensitization is likely to cause pain. It might be better, kinder to you and _safer_ , to admit you to hospital. They can put you under general anesthetic and—”

“No,” Bucky spits out, struggling against his awkward position on the table, pushing up on his elbows and leaning toward Steve. “I don’t care if it’s not made for this, or if it hurts, I am _not_ going to the hospital. If you don’t want to do this, fine, tell me, and I’ll take my chances on the street, but I am not being admitted. I’m not going, I’m not—”  
  
A jarring note of sourness rises from Bucky's skin, his distress so extreme it burns through the scent blockers.  
  
“Hey, hey, easy.” Steve closes the distance between them, gripping Bucky’s shoulder. He wants to gather the omega into his arms, tuck him close, rock him gently and soothe him until the sour note fades, until the tears welling in Bucky’s eyes dry. Wants to kiss those beautiful bitten lips until they’re slick and curving up against his in a smile that wrinkles his eyes. But he can't do any of that, all he can do is...

“It’s alright; we can do it here.” Steve lowers his voice, keeping it even and reassuring. He wants so desperately to smooth the creases from between Bucky's brows, to chase the shadows of fear haunting his eyes. “I can do it here for you.” Without thinking, he reaches out to Bucky's quivering hand lying palm-up across his belly and presses his own against it, threading his fingers into the empty space between Bucky's, and curling down, knitting them together. He runs his thumb over Bucky's, wishing they weren't separated by thin, blue latex, craving the feel of Bucky's skin against his own. “It’s okay, Bucky. I just don’t want you to—” _die._ Steve’s heart constricts painfully as he realizes if he gets this wrong, it’s a genuine possibility. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Steve can feel Bucky’s pulse start to slow, the reassurances, both physical and verbal, beginning to take effect. 

“You said I need this. Three today or I could die, right?”

“Yes.”

“Then I want you to do it. All three, today. No matter what. If I pass out, keep going. I’ll sign a form or whatever you—”

Bile floods Steve’s throat, and he shakes his head vehemently. The thought of doing a procedure on Bucky while he’s unconscious... “I _can’t_ —” 

“If you can’t do it, I will understand… but _I_ can’t go to hospital. I _won’t._ I’ll just have to try my luck at finding an alpha myself.”

“ _Bucky…”_

“No. I mean it. If you agree to do this, you do it until it’s done. No hospitals. _Promise me,_ Steve. _”_

Steve opens his mouth to protest, to argue, but snaps it shut. He can see Bucky's mind is set. Taking in the clenched jaw, the stubborn determination radiating from light eyes, Steve knows no amount of statistics-quoting or reasoning or cajoling is going to make a dent in his resolve. Bucky won't go to hospital, by choice or under duress, which only leaves... _the natural way.  
  
_The odds of Bucky finding an alpha in time are next to impossible. Steve ignores the dull throb between his thighs. Even if, by some miracle, Bucky found an alpha—another alpha—he wouldn't be able to get enough protein to increase his levels, to save himself. So that only leaves... _Fuck._ He can't believe he's actually considering Bucky's request.

If he says yes, he’ll have to live up to his word, he can't get half-way through and lose his nerve. But, can he really do this to Bucky if he’s passed out? Jesus. His gut turns over. He doesn’t even know if it will work. Forcing orgasms out of unconscious patients isn’t exactly something he has experience with. What if Bucky's too far gone to come? Will the machine even work? But if he doesn’t agree, Bucky _will l_ eave, of that, Steve's sure. And without the protein…  
  
Steve can feel the start of a headache throbbing to life at the base of his skull. He can’t help Bucky as an alpha right now, the only way he can help, the only way to save Bucky is by being a doctor… and by following Bucky’s wishes, no matter how much they go against his own.  
  
Swallowing down the dread and absolute certainty this is the worst idea he’s ever had, Steve nods before murmuring, “Okay.”

Bucky's breath leaves his body in a whoosh, his shoulders falling as relief blooms in his eyes before spreading over his face, chasing away the sickly green hue from his skin. “Say it.”

“I promise.” Steve ignores the way his heart stutters in his chest as the warm hand slotted against his squeezes him tightly.

“Thank you.”

Steve shakes his head sadly as he slips his hand free. “I doubt you’ll be thanking me later.”

The pain in his head notches higher as apprehension tightens his shoulders and strains his neck. But the dull ache is easier to ignore than the raucous chaos screaming inside his mind. Trying desperately to focus, he splits the session before him into simple tasks, concentrating on getting through this one step at a time.  
  
Return to the machine and check the delivery device is free from defects: check.  
  
Load the protein vial into the machine: check.  
  
Set the infusion protocol parameters: check.  
  
Explain the procedure to Bucky… 

Steve swallows around the sudden lump in his throat and turns back toward the bed. He lifts the large silicone device into view, watching Bucky’s eyes darken in response. Steve gets it; for all intents and purposes, he’s holding a large, flesh-colored knotting dildo. But unlike regular sex toys, the knot isn’t molded into the design, rather fitted with a wrinkle of excess silicone that will gradually stretch as it fills with the protein like a real knot would as it fucks into Bucky. The hidden sensor located under the head of the cock will constantly monitor Bucky’s slick, and when it detects the new chemical secretions released during his orgasm, the knot will pop a little more to ensure an optimal connection is made before releasing the protein. But knowing it and having to explain it is two entirely different things. Steve opts for the quick version, needing to just get started, to stop thinking, and start doing something other than picturing himself knotting his patient.

“Your orgasm will cause the knot to inflate and lock in place, which will trigger the transfer of the protein. Ordinarily, the machine will release the required amount quickly, over three to five minutes. But, with how depleted your body is, I don’t want you to go into shock with a quick release, so I’m going to set it to a slow infusion protocol. It will take an hour to complete the seeding, but it’s the best chance your body has of absorbing the protein completely and safely. Usually, I would then place a plug in you for a couple of hours, but in this case,” Steve falters, trying to extinguish the embers of dread alighting his chest with a deep breath before continuing, “we’ll repeat the process twice more before that.”

...If he gets that far. 

Steve places the dildo back into its slot on the machine before turning back to Bucky. 

“Sounds good.” The corner of Bucky’s mouth pulls up, but the slight tremble before it falls back down doesn't escape Steve's notice. 

God, all Steve wants to do is reach out and comfort Bucky. Well, no, what he _wants_ to do is scoop Bucky up, carry him to his car, and drive him to the hospital. He wants to beg him to please, please, please reconsider. ...He wants to throw up. “You can tell me to stop at any time if it’s too much or you change your mind, alright?” 

“I know.” The shaky smile flashes over those beautiful lips again before Bucky leans back on the table, fixing his eyes on the ceiling, and Steve’s heart aches watching Bucky pull in slow, determined breaths, trying so desperately to stay calm and be brave, to hide his fear.

“For this part of the procedure, I’m going to have to lift your gown for ease of access. Is that okay?” Steve waits for the rough jerking of Bucky’s head to signal his consent before he places his hands lightly over the spread thighs and edges the gown out of the way slowly. The anticipation builds, the heat in his belly coiling tighter as the shifting fabric reveals each new inch of skin. His eyes chase the movement, eating up the creamy thighs, glistening with slick, before the mint-green cover lifts further and he watches the enticing valley carved between the exquisite mounds of pale flesh creep into view, and he traces a path down to the pretty pink hole winking up at him, quivering and leaking under his gaze. 

Molten heat chases the ice from his veins, momentarily forgetting the horrors to come, unable to focus on anything other than the delights in front of him, now. His hands twitch, jerking the gown up as primal desire burns through him so intensely it steals the air from his lungs, making them burn in his chest. 

Steve has never, ever in his life wanted anything more than he wants to drop to his knees and bury his face between Bucky’s spread thighs, to kiss the crying hole, to coax Bucky open further and drink down the sweet slick pouring from the omega’s body until his belly is full and Bucky is rutting against his face, crying and coming and calling his name.

Steve isn't sure how long his eyes remain locked on the sweet ring, fantasizing about coating his tongue, his lips, his _face_ in Bucky's slick — it may be a minute or an hour, he can’t be sure, the only thing he’s aware of is the painful throbbing in his cock and acute cramping in his fingers. Dragging his eyes away from Bucky’s ass, it takes him a moment to find focus on the reason for the ache in his hands. He’s gripping the gown so tightly his knuckles are white, and he’s torn small crescent-shaped marks into the fabric with his nails. With effort, he relaxes his fingers and lets the gown drop, watching it fall and mold itself over the head of Bucky’s cock, leaving most of the latex-sheathed shaft and his smooth sack on full display. 

Steve’s mouth floods at the sight, and he drives his teeth into his tongue before swallowing the excess saliva and grabbing the dildo from the machine with a shaky hand. The sooner they get this over and done with, the better. _...The sooner he can stumble to the bathroom and jerk off so hard he passes out._ Steve chokes on the thought and coughs roughly to cover the strangled noise. He takes another sterile wipe from the trolley, wipes it over the dildo, and shoves it into his pocket before lining up the silicone head up with Bucky’s hole.

“This part can be a little uncomfortable. Studies have shown that a large girth stretching the anus paired with direct, vigorous prostate stimulation is the most effective path to orgasm for most male omegas.” Steve tries, really, really tries to ignore the way Bucky’s cock jerks, making the gown twitch up, and the way his own jerks in response. “Take a deep breath for me.”

Bucky’s chest swells as he does as requested, and Steve exerts firm pressure on the base of the fake cock in his hands, watching as Bucky’s rim fights the intrusion before finally yielding, the sweet puckered hole stretching, the pretty wrinkles smoothing as Bucky’s body strains to open up enough to allow the thick object access. Bucky exhales sharply, the whoosh of air ripping a grunt from his chest as the head of the cock finally slips inside.

“That’s the worst part over. You’re doing great. We’ll just wait a minute to let your body adjust.” Steve hates the low, breathless rasp to his voice, but he knows he should be grateful to be able to form words at all, given all the blood in his body is currently trapped, pounding in his cock.

“No, no waiting,” Bucky whimpers. “I need _more,_ please. _Now.”_

Hearing Bucky beg to be filled has all of Steve’s nerves firing at once, jolting up to send a current racing through his skin. Before he can even decide if it’s a good idea, if it will hurt Bucky, his hand is moving, pushing forward, burying the thick cock into Bucky’s body in one long, hard thrust. 

Bucky’s hips twitch up as he whimpers again, his hands twisting in the gown. The movement tugs it higher, revealing another tantalizing tease of his gorgeous cock, and Steve can see the slick smears of precome from where the barely-hidden head is weeping into its latex prison. 

“Now I just need to get the right angle for it to hit your—”

“ _Ahh!”_ Bucky’s hips jerk up off the table, a tremor running through his raised legs, his toes curling down.

“Nevermind,” Steve huffs out a broken breath, his hand tightening like a vice around the base of the dildo.

Bucky’s chest is rising and falling rapidly as he pants, eyes squeezed closed, and Steve has to force his gaze away. He can imagine only too vividly having Bucky like this in his bed. Naked and needy, impaled on his cock, writhing with pleasure, begging to be filled. 

The small gasp draws his focus, and Steve realizes his hands are trembling again, and the shaking is making the dildo twitch in his grasp, and jerk inside of Bucky’s body, rubbing over his prostate. 

Mentally cursing himself, Steve switches hands, holding the dildo in place loosely. He shakes out his other hand before drawing out the retractable pole from the machine’s front facade and attaching it to the quick release connector on the base of the fake cock protruding from Bucky’s ass. He waits for the sharp click that signals the connection is secure, and the tube running from the machine and the one running through the dildo are correctly aligned. 

Releasing the dildo reluctantly, Steve turns to face Bucky, trying to keep his face impassive. “Okay, we’re all set. I’ll only ask you one more time— are you _sure_ this is what you want?” _Please say no, please say — _

Steve can see the answer in Bucky's eyes before he opens his mouth. “Mmhmm, I’m sure.” Bucky’s voice is as breathless and out of control as Steve feels, but there’s a thread of steely determination woven through the words.

Setting his jaw, Steve nods his acknowledgment before turning away, eyes narrowing on the small, unassuming green button that will start the machine and commence the procedure. He jabs at it with his thumb before twisting back toward the bed.

The electronic hum of the machine is the only sound filling the room for a moment as it whirs into motion, guiding the dildo out of Bucky’s wet hole until Steve can see the obscene distention of Bucky's rim as the flared head tugs against it from the inside. Almost immediately, the machine slides forward again, moving a little quicker now, and Steve knows when it hits its target because a moan breaks over Bucky’s lips before he clamps his mouth shut and squeezes his eyes closed again. 

Steve knows he should turn away or at least _look_ away, but every ounce of his strength is being used to stop himself from wrapping his hand around his aching cock and fisting himself in time with the thrusts of the fake cock into Bucky’s body. 

The machine is now working at full speed, connecting with Bucky's prostrate on every thrust inside, making him twitch and jerk off the table. It’s the movement that breaks through the fog in his head, knowing Bucky could hurt himself if he doesn’t stay still. Clenching one hand into a fist, he lets the biting pain of his nails digging into his palm ground him as he strides up to the center of the table. He splays the fingers of his free hand wide as he lowers it onto Bucky's hip. The contact makes Bucky buck up higher, and Steve just presses down more firmly, holding him in place, feeling the heat of Bucky’s body radiate up through the thin glove.

The strangled sound in Bucky’s throat is half-gasp, half-moan, and throbs straight to Steve’s cock. But he can feel Bucky holding back, biting off the sounds of his pleasure before they make it past his lips. Steve would bet his life on Bucky being a vocal partner, crying and moaning and begging as he shakes apart with ecstasy, and fuck, he wants to hear it, craves it. Unsticking his tongue from the roof of his suddenly dry mouth, Steve fights to keep the lust from his voice as he murmurs, “It’s okay to make noise; these rooms are soundproof.”

As if waiting for permission, Bucky moans a curse and tries to buck up against Steve’s hand. 

“You need to tell me if it causes pain, and I can readjust.” Steve cringes at the husk in his voice, exerting a little more pressure on the squirming body under him, relishing the opportunity, the excuse, to feel Bucky's pleasure feeding up into him.

“Uh, it’s fine,” Bucky grinds out before pinching his puffy lower lip between his teeth again. 

Steve tears his gaze away, staring down at the dildo, shiny with Bucky’s arousal, watching the knot swell in earnest as the silicone cock drives into Bucky’s body, knowing the knot will be too engorged to easily slip past the stretched rim in a few more thrusts, which means… Bucky’s about to come. 

“I — oh, fuck, I’m gonna — Uh, it’s gonna — _ahh_ — fuck, it’s gonna happen.” 

The harsh gasp draws Steve’s gaze back up as Bucky's mouth falls open and he moans, the exquisite sound filling the room and ringing in Steve's ears. He should look away, he should check the machine is knotting Bucky properly, that it stops when it's supposed to, but he can't tear his eyes away from the gorgeous sight unfolding before him. Bucky’s whole body stretches out, lean muscles tensing, rippling under sweat-slicked skin as a shudder rips through him. Held high and open by the stirrups, Bucky's legs spasm as his back bows beautifully off the table, the condom filling with his milky release, all while quivering hips strain under Steve's hand.

Steve jerks his hips forward, driving against the table, squashing his cock between it and his belly. The sharp pain is the only thing that stops him from coming like a fucking teenage pup in rut without a touch. He bites tersely at his cheek, wincing as the metallic tang of blood rushes over his tongue, the twin sensations just enough to bring him back from the brink. 

He relaxes his death grip on Bucky’s hip. “That was perfect, Bucky. You did great.” Steve’s eyes finally flick back down to Bucky’s ass. “You’re safely tied to the knot. Do you feel alright?”

Bucky blinks slowly, eyelids staying down longer than they’re up, as he nods gently, soft mewling noises falling from his lips with every breath.

“I’m going to try and make you a little more comfortable. Is it okay to clean you up, or would you prefer to do that yourself?”

The only answer is a contented sigh as his eyelashes flutter against flushed cheeks, now staying down for the count.

“Bucky?” Steve waits a moment, but Bucky’s chest is rising and falling slowly, deep breaths heralding the onset of sleep. 

For the first time in a week, Steve’s grateful for his alpha instincts, the need to take care of his omega rising above his own desires. The thought startles through him, and he jerks away from the table. Not _his_ omega. 

_...not yet._

Semantics aside, the tasks are the same, and Steve moves to the end of the bed, freeing Bucky’s ankles and lowering them, letting his legs drape off the table before unlatching the dildo from the metal rod. 

A strange combination of dread and anticipation slows his steps as he returns to the table’s center. Quaking fingers trap the hem of the gown and lift it a scant inch up until the whole of Bucky’s softening cock is visible. Steve walks backward from the table, eyes never leaving the delicious, sticky mess until he bumps up against the cupboards that house the supplies. He’s never gathered the supplies he needs and returned to the table more quickly than this moment. 

He removes the used condom, his shaking hands managing to spill most of the contents back onto Bucky’s skin. He curses under his breath as he uses a wipe to collect the mess from the patch of dark hair low on Bucky’s belly, before gently taking hold of the now-soft cock and cleaning it carefully. Each movement pulls a quiet whimper from Bucky's parted lips.

Tucking the used condom into the wipe and crumpling it into a ball, Steve tosses it onto the tray with the wand, then rips open the fresh condom. He flicks the packet over to the tray, frowning when he misses his mark. Bucky’s cock twitches in his hands as he rolls the clean casing in place, and Steve can feel his own cock leak wetly against his belly, crying for attention.

Ten more seconds… just hold on for ten more seconds.

The mantra disappears from his mind like fog burning away in sunlight as he gathers Bucky into his arms. Holding the omega against his chest, arms tucked under Bucky’s ass and wrapping around his back, possessiveness flares inside him. A growl bursts from his chest as Bucky rubs his face against it. It feels perfect to have Bucky in his arms, nuzzling against him, and he has to force himself to place Bucky back down on his side, higher up the bed. 

Lifting Bucky’s head with one hand, Steve slides a pillow beneath it with the other, raking his fingers through the long locks, sweeping them back as he lowers Bucky’s cheek down onto the cushion. Bucky curls up the minute Steve drapes the blanket over him, making a small contented humming sound. He looks so beautiful, Steve's breath catches in his throat.

A flashing, red light catches Steve’s eye, the phone on his desk blinking with the extension for reception; Wanda’s signal to let him know that his next appointment is here.

Steve sighs and turns back to Bucky. “Just rest. I need to see another patient, but I’ll be back to check on you shortly. There’s an emergency call button beside the table if you need me.” He knows Bucky can hear him by the sleepy hum of acknowledgment, but he also knows he’ll be lucky if Bucky’s awake in an hour when it’s time for round two.

...Round two. Oh, god. 

Steve slips from the room, catching the door and letting it snick closed, quietly, behind him.

“Steve, your—” 

Steve glances over his shoulder at Wanda and holds up his index finger in the universal sign for _‘just a second’_ while making a beeline for the staff bathroom down the corridor. 

Once inside, he slides the lock closed and leans back heavily against the door. He can’t see his next patient like this; he needs a minute to collect himself, to splash water on his face and calm down. He groans. No, he needs to _come._ He lifts his head and lets it fall back and thump against the door before he stares at his reflection in the mirror, at the large, dark stain of precome wetting the fabric of his shirt. Shit. 

The vision of Bucky, arching off the table so beautifully, crying out so sweetly fills Steve’s mind, and he reaches down to squeeze his knot through his pants, his hips jerking forward into the touch. Snapping his lids shut, he focuses on the memory of that pretty pink rim, slick and stretched as he massages his throbbing knot, imagining it’s Bucky’s body, clenching tight around him, milking him. He bites down on his hand as he comes, muffling his moan as his cock spits pulse after pulse of hot come over his belly, his legs shake, threatening to give out as his toes curl in his shoes. Letting the door take his weight, he sucks short, sharp breaths into his lungs, waiting for his heart to slow. He wipes his spit-covered fist over his lips, succeeding only in making more of a mess as he stares at his reflection with heavy-lidded eyes, watching the stain on his shirt grow larger as his come soaks into the fabric.

Well, fuck. 

He washes his hands before splashing his face, hoping the cool water will wash away the post-orgasmic flush from his cheeks, then runs his hands through his hair, trying to train it into some semblance of order. Grabbing a wad of toilet paper, he cleans his belly before flushing away the evidence of his complete and utter lack of control, then uses more, wet with water, to try and salvage his shirt. But his efforts only add to the stains, making them more noticeable, not less, and he gives up and readjusts his softening cock instead, tucking it back away into his pants.  
  
His knot is still half-full and aching, but Steve doesn't have time to take care of it now. Half-measures will have to do until he gets home, and then he fully plans to spend the night rutting against his bed, moaning Bucky's name into a pillow, and soaking his sheets until he's empty.   
  
As covertly as he’s able, he pokes his head out of the bathroom, checking the hallway is clear before darting to Clint’s office across the hall.

Shrugging off his coat, he drapes it over Clint’s bar-stool-cum-office-chair, and unbuttons his ruined shirt as he nudges the third desk drawer open with his foot. Thanks to Clint’s innate ability to turn into a complete klutz at the most inopportune times, he always keeps a change of clothes tucked away, _just in case_ , and hell if this isn’t the mother of all _just in case’s._

Steve grabs a shirt from the drawer and pulls it over his head, tugging it down before tucking it into his pants. It's two sizes too small, but it’s soft and, most importantly, not covered in come, so he’s not going to complain. He shrugs back into his coat and balls up his wet shirt and shoves it into an empty cupboard before stepping back out into the hall. 

Wanda raises an eyebrow as he approaches the reception desk. “You and Barton sharing clothes now?”

“I, uh, the bathroom — had a faucet incident,” Steve mumbles, hoping his skin is not turning as red as it feels. 

“Huh. And here I thought Barton was the human disaster. Please don’t tell me it’s catching.” 

Steve forces out a laugh that sounds hollow to his own ears. “Oh, Wanda, Bu— Mr. Barnes is still in my office, I’m having to use the SI Protocol on the machine, so I’ll be seeing patients in Clint’s office until he’s done.”

Wanda sinks onto her chair before nodding. “Got it. I’ll send the alerts through to Barton’s office, but just so you know, you’re already running about thirty behind.”

“Yeah, I know.” Steve smiles at her before catching the eye of his next patient and motioning them over. “Give my apologies as my patients arrive, and tell them I'll be with them as soon as I’m able.”

“You got it, boss.”

“I've told you not to call me boss, Wanda. Steve is fine.”

Wanda grins up at him. “Barton told me to call you Doctor Dreamy.” 

Steve sighs. “Boss is fine,” he mutters, before pasting a smile on his face and greeting his next patient. "Hey, Sharon, how's your day been?"  
  
The blonde smiles up at him as she shrugs and flips her hair over a shoulder. "Can't complain. Yours?"  
  
Steve's hums thoughtfully as he ushers her down the corridor to Clint’s office, his eyes lingering on his own office door as he passes, picturing the beautiful omega curled up in his office awaiting his return. "Can't complain."  
  
  



	4. First Do No Harm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. So, I think I used all my spicy points in the last chapter, this one is sitting at kinda mild/medium. Sorry. Ice baths will not be required.
> 
> ii. A 'kind of (consensual) somnophilia' tag has been added, for those amongst you with smut allergies, please be warned. Not just for the third session, but for Steve's interesting thoughts during it.
> 
> iii. This is only the second part of the third chapter. If you're following me on tumblr, you've probably seen half of it, sorry. Gonna work on adding spoiler tags to things! The third part will be along soonish; Sorry, had to split them. Again. Clearly, I need to stop describing every bead of sweat that rolls down Bucky's balls or something, idek. 
> 
> iv. As always, I love seeing/reading your thoughts and reactions in the comments. Or, come play with me on tumblr @thewaythatwerust!

“Oh, _fuck.”_

The hip under Steve’s hand strains, fighting to arch up, and he gives a gentle squeeze before urging it back down, flat onto the exam table. He swallows down the sigh as his eyes drift to the clock on the wall. These tables really need straps, some sort of safety belt to limit movement. It would make treatment a lot less hands-on, as long as it had some kind of quick-release the patient could trigger if need be. Trying to design the placement in his mind, he splays his fingers wider, pressing down firmly on the shuddering body beneath his hand and makes a mental note to bring it up at the SI MedExpo next month. 

The breathless gasps below him, a soft litany of _ah, ah, ah’s,_ keep time with the machine’s thrusts and drown out the rhythmic _tick, tick, ticking_ of the clock. Steve watches the hand drag itself toward the twelve again, and after five more agonizingly-slow _clicks_ , it reaches its goal and ticks over, beginning its fruitless task all over again. 

The futility of it strikes Steve all at once; the pleasure of chasing your desire turning to pain when you realize that though within reach, it’ll never be within your grasp. It’s a never-ending cycle: a hand on a clock, a hamster on a wheel, Sisyphus rolling a boulder up a hill only to have his reward for success become his punishment. Steve rolls his shoulders, attempting to stretch out the ache growing between them knowing _his_ boulder is waiting for him curled up in sleep on his exam table.

“Oh, fuck… oh, _fuck!_ ”

The desperate moans cut through his reverie, and he refocuses on the task at hand, his gaze settling on the knot now almost fully engorged. “That’s it, just like that. You’re almost there.”

“Oh, Steve, _Steve_ — I’m coming, I’m—”

Steve holds the writhing body on the table as it convulses beneath his grasp, but his eyes are trained on the knot, watching it disappear as the machine grinds to a standstill, locking in place. The LEDs on the faceplate switch from green to yellow, signaling the protein transfer has begun.

“You did great. Does everything feel okay?” Steve steps away from the table, keeping his eyes on Sharon as he moves to the desk.

“Mmmm, fantastic,” Sharon sighs, her body relaxing on the table, her ragged breathing already beginning to even out. 

Steve lowers himself onto the stool with a quiet groan, his ass protesting the hard surface immediately, missing the pillowy softness of his own, _far superior_ chair. But too tired to complain _much,_ he shifts and shuffles on his perch until he finds an almost-comfortable position and closes his eyes. 

Tension creeps through his body, leaving tight muscles and dull aches in its wake. He knows it’s just the events of today catching up to him and knows he has no one to blame but himself. 

“Have you ever thought about offering sessions with these machines without the protein?" Sharon calls from the bed, her voice equal parts drowsy and content. “Just some good old fashioned stress relief?” 

Steve’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t open his eyes — isn’t even sure he could if he wanted to. “I’m not sure that kind of stress relief would be covered by your insurance; it certainly isn’t covered in the manual. I take it things aren’t going so great with Jack?”

“He decided that being an alpha, he was much too vital to the world’s repopulation efforts to be trapped in a monogamous relationship.”

Steve snorts derisively. “What a dick.”

“Yeah, and a surprisingly poorly-endowed one at that,” she chuckles before humming thoughtfully. “The whole mess is kind of my own fault, though.”

“How did you arrive at that spectacularly wrong conclusion?”

“I knew he was an asshole when we met, but I ignored the little voice in my head telling me it was a bad idea. No good has ever come of me ignoring that little voice. The last time I didn't listen, I let my best friend convince me that getting a perm was a good idea. A perm, Steve. That little voice exists for a reason, and if you ignore it, things will always end disastrously. I shouldn’t have been surprised.”

A prickle of foreboding lodges in Steve’s gut, but he resolutely ignores it. He’s saved from answering when the machine emits five short, sharp beeps, and he drags his eyes open in time to see the light flicker from yellow to red — seeding complete.

Pushing to his feet takes considerably more effort than he’ll ever admit to; his lack of sleep and earlier bathroom exploits making his limbs unwieldy and sluggish. He’s going to have to raid Clint’s not-so-secret sugar stash before he sees his next patient. Everyone always assumes Clint’s never-ending energy is because he's _high on life_ , but Steve knows his best friend is high on nothing but caffeine and sugar, and always keeps his carb ‘uppers’ close at hand—something Steve fully intends to take advantage of.

“All done,” he says more brightly than he feels. He goes through the motions with practiced efficiency: uncoupling the dildo, retracting the pole, removing the dildo and pressing the plug into its place. He snaps his gloves off, tossing them on to the tray with the dildo, then wheeling the trolley away. When he turns back, Sharon is sitting up on the table, legs dangling off the edge, swinging slightly as she gives him a wicked smile. 

“I’m serious, Steve. If ever you start offering this machine in a non-seeding capacity, sign me up. It hits spots Jack never even found. Not that he spent much time looking,” she adds as an afterthought. 

The laughter rumbling from his chest feels good, a little ray of sunlight piercing through the dark clouds in his mind, and for a moment, he lets himself revel in the glow. “I’ll keep that in mind,” he grins, passing her a packet of wipes. “You know the drill.” 

After drawing the curtain around the table, Steve strolls to the door. Though he knows he shouldn't, he can't resist leaning back against it and letting his eyelids fall closed again. The exhaustion is relentless, tempting him, clawing at him, but he shakes it off; he has a ways to go before he can surrender to the oblivion of sleep.

“I’m attending a medical convention next month,” Steve calls, loud enough to carry over the rustling sounds of Sharon getting dressed. “I’ve been talking to a few manufacturers about the possibility of home-based machines—for actual seedings, I mean. There’s no reason that omegas shouldn’t have the option to manage their own heats in the comfort of their own homes. If everything works out, you won’t even have to come to the clinic, you can treat yourself at home, and then, how you use it is between you and your bedroom walls.”

The jangling of metal rings sweeping around the track above the bed all but drown out Sharon’s delighted laugh, but Steve can see the evidence of it shining from her face. “That’s a brilliant idea, Steve. You tell the powers that be that you already have your first customer, ready and waiting.”

Steve pushes off the door and holds it open. “Will do. But until then, I’m guessing I’ll see you in twelve weeks?”

Sharon loops her arm through his as he escorts her down the corridor toward reception. “Why, of course, Doctor Rogers, I wouldn’t miss it for the world. Coming to see you is the highlight of my heat.” 

Steve grins down at her as she unlinks her arm and starts fishing around in her bag for her purse. “Always glad to be of service.”

“Boss, your next appointment is checked in and waiting.” Wanda holds out a clipboard, the standard for all new patients, and Steve nods but doesn’t take it.

“Once you’re finished with Sharon, could you get the room ready and show them through to Clint’s office for me, please? I’ll just be a second; I have to check on Mr. Barnes.”

Wanda’s lips twist to the side before she places the clipboard on the counter a little harder than she needs to. Nodding distractedly, she turns to key the treatment code into the computer. “Uh-huh, no problem. Just like me asking you for a raise for going above and beyond my job description will be no problem for you, right?”

Ignoring the comment, resisting the urge to roll his eyes—the urge that only seems to happen in Wanda’s presence—Steve gives Sharon’s shoulder a quick squeeze in farewell before he turns and makes his way back to his office. To _Bucky._

Steve opens the door carefully, not wanting to disturb Bucky if he’s still resting peacefully. Bucky had looked exhausted when he’d come in. The dark circles under his eyes testament to how little sleep he’s been getting for the past week, and with that, Steve can definitely empathize. 

Bucky’s heat must have been taking one hell of a toll on his body with such severe symptoms, god knows it has been taking a hell of a toll on _him._ Steve stares down at Bucky, a new, strange thought occurring to him. Is this what it’s like to be an omega? To have a heat? Out of control hormones, going crazy with desire, unable to eat or sleep or think about anything other than… _Bucky._ It must be like being in rut, though he wouldn’t know. Clint had shared a couple of horror tales about his own, but Steve had never experienced one. This past week, with Bucky's heat somehow rousing his own primal response, is the closest he’s ever felt to truly losing control, but it’s still miles away from what Clint had described. And to the best of his knowledge, ruts don’t cause cramping and pain and nausea, or any the other dozen symptoms of a heat. No, whoever said alphas were the designation of strength had been seriously mistaken. 

Steve lets his gaze drift over Bucky's curled-up body. He looks so soft in sleep, all traces of agitation and anxiety, of fear and pain washed away. His breaths are deep and even, the blanket rising and falling in a steady rhythm. He’s just so _achingly_ beautiful.

By Steve's calculations, there are at least twenty-five minutes until the protein transfer is complete, and he doesn’t want to wake Bucky until it’s absolutely necessary. The next sessions are going to be hard, Bucky needs to rest.

Steve longs to reach out, run his fingers through the long dark locks fanned across the pillow as if caught in an invisible wind. Yearning slices through Steve’s chest, quick and sharp. He wants Bucky wrapped in slumber just like this in his bed, _in his arms_ , He wants to press soft kisses to the back of that sinful neck and trace his tongue over the claim that marks Bucky as _his._

“Steve?”

Spinning toward the soft summons, Steve’s mouth twists down into a disapproving frown. He holds a hand up to silence Wanda when her mouth opens again, his eyes flicking to Bucky to make sure he hadn’t been disturbed. He shoos Wanda from the door and pulls it closed quietly behind him as he steps out into the hallway. 

_“What?”_ Steve barks, tendrils of alpha possessiveness and protectiveness curling tight around him. 

Wanda flinches away before setting her shoulders and bristling visibly. “Your next appointment has been waiting in Clint’s office for _fifteen minutes,”_ she replies churlishly.

 _Fifteen minutes?_ “Fuck,” Steve huffs. “Sorry, Wanda, I’m just… not feeling myself today. I didn’t get much sleep—but that’s, fuck, that’s no excuse. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped.”

Folding her arms across her chest, Wanda eyes Steve skeptically. “You are acting weird today.” She sighs and rolls her eyes. “It’s fine, whatever. Just go and do your job so I can do mine.” Without waiting for a reply—or a reprimand—she turns on her heel and flounces back toward her desk.

Steve tries to put Bucky out of his mind as he strides into Clint’s office and closes the door. He settles himself on the ridiculously uncomfortable stool, watching his new patient stops spinning on his, blinking rapidly.

“Apologies for the wait, I got caught up with another patient. I’m Steve, I’ll be your doctor today.”

“Oh, hey, that’s alright. These stools are a rad way to pass the time. Genius move putting them in here instead of the usual boring office chairs.”

 _Genius?_ “They’re certainly something.” Steve forces his lips up in a smile while he scans the clipboard in front of him. “So, you’re Peter, and you’re here for scent blockers?”

“You can call me Quill, everyone does. And yeah, heat’s due in a couple of days and I’m starting to get a bit whiffy already. Gotta get the blockers on board, or all the alphas’ll be tryin’ to get a piece of this,” he sighs, gesturing at himself. “You know how it is. I usually go for a seven day Macroprax patch if that’s cool?”

Steve’s eyes flick to the clock as he stands, doing some quick calculations in his head. By his reckoning, he should be finished with Quill at almost the exact time Bucky's procedure will be complete. “Sounds like a plan.”

. . .

Steve trails his fingers through the dark locks, brushing them down against Bucky’s neck. The strands are silken against his skin, cool and sleek, and Steve gives in to temptation, raking his fingers through them once more before cradling Bucky’s head, lifting just enough to pry the pillow free. 

“Bucky? Can you hear me? It’s time for your second session. Think you can wake up for me?”

Bucky tucks his head down to his chest, making a small, disgruntled noise in his throat. Steve chuckles as he lifts the blanket. God, how is he so sweet?

He folds the blanket, then props it on his chair with the pillow, knowing they’re going to need them again soon enough.

Prepared now for the rush of possessiveness, Steve steels himself as he lifts Bucky into his arms once more and repositions him lower on the table, but it doesn’t stop the ache of loss pulling at his chest once he sets Bucky back down. It has to mean something, the fact he feels this way whenever he touches Bucky; it _has_ to.

“Your first session went perfectly,” Steve murmurs. With his brain beginning to spiral, he needs a diversion, and he can think of nothing better than trying to come up with awkward, one-sided small talk while his hands are occupied resetting Bucky’s feet in the stirrups.

“By my calculations, your TPT should be double digits now, almost twenty percent.” He attaches the metal rod to the base of the dildo.

“After the three sessions, you’ll probably still have most of your heat symptoms, but they should be a lot less severe.” Steve sets another protein vial into the machine and resets it before being drawn, like a magnet, back to the stunning man laid out on his table like a gift from the gods. “But the most important thing is that you’re safe. Or you will be. _I promise._ ”

Bucky’s lashes flutter wildly before finally lifting.

Steve smiles down at him. “You back with me?”

It takes Bucky a moment to find focus, find his bearings, eyes darting around the room, and down to the machine between his thighs before he nods. “Yeah. Ready and willing for round two.” Bucky’s voice wavers, a hint of trepidation bleeding through the assurance, but Steve knows Bucky’s not going to back down now, and neither can he... he made a promise. 

He squeezes Bucky’s hand, a reassurance for Bucky or himself, he’s not sure, before moving back to the machine. He doesn’t ask if Bucky’s sure this time, doesn’t need to, just pulls in a deep breath and holds it as he starts the second seeding.

The machine starts slowly, dragging out of Bucky’s ass, tugging at the rim, already puffy and red from his first knotting. Steve winces as Bucky twitches on the table. Slick and protein leak down over his skin in tempting rivulets, his fucked out hole struggling to hold it in while the fat cock pushes inside, faster, _faster._ Bucky’s trembling twitches turn into sharp jerks, gasping as his hips lurch off the table, his legs convulsing violently, trapped in place by the stirrups. 

Steve moves back to what he’s starting to think of as _his spot_ beside Bucky, and plants his hand on Bucky’s hip. He can only imagine what it feels like, for the thick dildo to be driving into the abused passage, for the constant stimulation so soon after his first orgasm.

“Do you want me to stop?”

Bucky squeezes his eyes shut as he scrubs his head over the table, his hair catching on the mat and forming a twisting, dark halo. “No, no, it’s— _ahh_ — oh, fuck... No, it’s fine.” 

The note of sourness rises sharply off Bucky’s skin, but it’s the glistening tear streaking down his cheek that catches Steve’s attention and jolts him into motion, closing the distance to the machine in two steps and thumping the emergency stop button. 

Steve’s back beside Bucky in two more steps, back before light eyes even reopen. Questions and words of reassurance die in Steve’s throat as he snaps his jaw shut, feeling the muscles jump and strain as he works to get his anger and frustration and fear under control. What the fuck was he thinking, saying he could do three sessions in one day? There is no way he can do this — no way _Bucky_ can do this.

“I said it’s fine. I can take it.” Bucky’s lips tremble, his chin wobbling as another tear spills down his cheek. 

“Jesus, Bucky, you’re crying, you’re in pain. This isn’t... it’s not—” _It’s not supposed to be like this._ Steve battles back the frustrated growl growing in his chest. Bucky should be made love to, not fucked by some cold, clinical piece of medical equipment. He should be worshipped and made to feel beautiful and special and desired. Sweetness, not sourness, should be flooding the air as he shatters apart, crying with pleasure not pain.

Bucky’s eyes darken, anguish swimming in the watery depths. “ _You promised_.”

“I know, I’m not—” Steve breaks off, squeezing his eyes shut, unable to take the accusation in Bucky’s gaze. “Just, give me a minute to think.”

He’d come to terms with the possibility of performing a procedure while Bucky is unconscious, but there’s no way in hell he can continue while Bucky’s in so much _pain_ that his distress is burning through the blockers and he’s fucking crying less than a minute into the procedure.

Jesus Christ, why the fuck did he agree to this? He’s an idiot, a lust-fueled, smitten idiot. Steve scrubs the back of his hand over his forehead, only barely curbing his desire to thump his fist against it instead. He pulls in a breath and traps it in his lungs, feeling his hammering heart start to steady. He needs to work the problem. Bucky needs the protein... but he can’t get the protein because the machine is causing pain... the machine is causing pain because…

Steve’s eyes snap open. “What’s hurting, the stimulation, or the pressure?”

“The pressure,” Bucky responds immediately. “It’s too much, too hard. Can you change the strength of the machine?”

“No, it’s sort of a one-size-fits-all deal. I could…” Oh, shit. _Could_ he? _Really?_

He’d nearly lost control just _watching_ the machine fuck Bucky. Steve purses his lips to fight the frown tugging at them. Now the idea has taken root in his mind, the prospect of triggering Bucky’s orgasm like _that_ has chased away all other possibilities.  
  
He runs his tongue over dry lips, needing his next words to slide over them without catching. Bucky mirrors the gesture, and Steve’s eyes lock on the tease of pink peeking out and sliding between red lips, and he clamps his together, trapping the moan clawing its way up his throat. He pauses, waiting until he’s confident he can form words rather than just broken sounds. When he opens his mouth, he’s half-right, the words rush out on a low breath, roughly-hewn and threatening to break, but holding nonetheless. “I could try manual stimulation.”

Bucky’s hand trembles as it moves over his cheeks, wiping away his spilled tears. “Manual — I, uh, what is that?”

“Well, it’s a more, ah, hands-on approach. It would mean me inserting my fingers into you and mil—” Steve falters, cheeks prickling “ah, massaging your prostate manually to trigger an orgasm. You would have to tell me when you are close, so I can re-engage the machine for it to knot you again. But... I’m not sure it will work, and Bucky, if it doesn’t, I won’t have a choice but to—”

Bucky cuts him off, shaking his head decisively. “It’ll work.”

Adrenaline floods Steve’s veins, making his heart beat wildly in his throat as he makes his way back to the machine on shaky legs, ignoring the never-ending _‘oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck’_ looping through his head. His finger slips over the button that will transfer the protein into the silicone knot, and he curses under his breath, jabbing it again. The milky fluid drains from the glass vial quickly, passing through the machine’s tubing and into the dildo. Steve’s gaze fixes on the knot, nudging up against Bucky’s rim, watching it swell.

Once it’s full, he disconnects the metal pole, the sharp _snap_ making Bucky startle on the table. The rod retracts smoothly into the machine, but Steve’s not looking at that. Not when Bucky is spread open, dildo protruding from his ass, the puffy ring so goddamn wet and messy, just begging for Steve's tongue to clean it up. His mouth goes bone dry in an instant, and the rough swallow he forces does nothing for the sandpaper of his throat. 

Gripping the base, avoiding squeezing the knot, Steve pulls on it slowly, guiding it from Bucky’s ass as he whimpers on the table. It slides free, inch by agonizing inch, until only the bulbous head keeps it locked in place. Steve tugs gently, but Bucky’s body fights him, sucking at the fake cock, foiling his efforts.  
  
With trembling fingers, he presses around the stretched ring. Bucky is so warm here; Steve can feel the heat and the _softness even_ through his gloves. Gritting his teeth, he presses his fingers down around the rim, urging it back as it strains out toward him while he coaxes the greedy hole to relinquish its prize. Bucky gasps, his ass fluttering around air as the fake cock slides free on a wave of slick and synthetic come. 

The globs of fluid slide lazily down the smooth curve of Bucky’s ass, dripping on to the mat below. Steve frowns as another drop escapes the quivering rim. _What a waste._ Unthinkingly, he reaches out, ready to scoop up the protein and press it back into Bucky’s body, but he stops himself just in time. He ignores the shaking in his hand as he jerks it back by his side.

He’s losing his fucking mind.

“Ready?” He doesn’t even try to cover his lust-rough voice. Things are going to get worse before they get better, and with waning willpower, he needs to choose his battles wisely. 

Bucky doesn’t answer, just jerks his head in the affirmative direction, and Steve curls all but two of his fingers to his palm and nudges the extended ones up against the now-empty ass. He drags a slow, deep breath into his lungs and then begins feeding his fingers into Bucky’s body.

Bucky’s desperate hole opens for him eagerly, relaxing around him like a sigh, the mixed mess from the first seeding coating his fingers and easing the way. The thin, blue barrier between Bucky’s body and his is suffocating, and he yearns to rip it off, to feel Bucky’s slick coating his hand, run down his wrist, and soak into his skin.

The bolt of pain that throbs through his cock makes him wince. He can feel his precome welling up and spilling over, and he suddenly feels a lot less foolish for grabbing the condom on impulse after his last patient and tugging it on _just in case._

Steve curls his fingers in the wet heat, seeking the bundle of nerves, and Bucky cries out as he finds and rubs over the gland. Raised knees fall apart, spreading wider, opening himself, Bucky _offering_ himself to Steve, asking for _more_. 

The display bolts through Steve in a flash of heat, his alpha instincts roaring to life at the submissive gesture. His head feels fuzzy, buzzing with rolling static like a fuse has blown somewhere inside him. He had intended to just rub over Bucky’s prostate slowly and methodically, to coax an orgasm from the omega carefully, but higher brain functions have surrendered, and he acts on instinct, drawing his hand back before driving it back into Bucky’s body, mimicking the motions of the machine, curving his fingers to caress his target with every thrust. 

Bucky spasms on the table, his whole body trembling as Steve fucks into his body. A desperate stream of punched-out _ah’s_ tear from his chest with every breath in time with Steve’s hand. 

“Does this feel okay?”

“Oh, fuck, _yes.”_ Bucky hisses sharply, his hips jerking up and down in abortive little thrusts, riding Steve’s hand, meeting each slide into his body halfway, fucking Steve as much as the reverse. 

And, _oh._

He’s fucking Bucky. 

_He’s fucking Bucky._

_Oh, fuck._

The air around them hangs heavy and charged, pressing down on Steve, thick and suffocating. Bucky's scent no longer spices the air, but Steve swears he can _taste_ him on it, sucking him down into his lungs with every burning breath, feeling Bucky blazing through his veins.  
  
He glides his thumb alongside Bucky’s balls and brings the heel of his hand up under them, grinding it into the sensitive sack each time he sinks his fingers into Bucky's greedy hole.

And, fuck, is it _greedy_. Bucky clenches around his fingers, clutching at him desperately each time he pulls out, and trying to suck him in deeper each time he drives back in, a constant stream of whimpers and moans spilling from Bucky's lips, too far gone to even try to contain them.

“That’s it, just like that, you’re doing so good,” Steve praises, throbbing at the way Bucky’s whole body jolts at the compliment, a sob wrenching from his chest. Jesus fucking Christ, how did he think he could keep control with such a gorgeous, _responsive_ omega under his hands? He could probably get Bucky to spill untouched with nothing but gentle pets to his head and tender kisses, telling him what a good boy he is. Those big light eyes turning dark and hazy, crying and coming from whispered praises alone.

The thought makes Steve’s knot ache, filling to bursting point, needing relief, but he just thrusts his hand harder, stretching his fingers deeper into the velvety, spongey softness of Bucky's body, spreading them, curling them, working that sweet spot over and over.

Bucky bows off the table, writhing and reaching up to thread his hands through his hair. The movement jerks the gown up to his navel, revealing the hard curve of his cock, bouncing on his belly as he rocks against Steve’s fingers. “Oh my god, you feel fucking amazing,” he gasps, tugging frantically on the dark locks, seemingly unaware of being so wholly on display. 

Steve shifts, intending to lower the gown, but he changes course, pressing his free hand low on Bucky’s belly instead, pinning him to the table. Bucky jerks up under the pressure, moaning at the contact, and Steve meets the challenge, pushing back harder even as his fingers continue to fuck in and out of the sloppy hole. 

“Uh, uh, _Steve.”_

The whispered word rings in Steve’s ears, and his hand stutters, momentarily losing his rhythm. The minute the offer of manual stimulation had slipped past his lips, Steve had known it had become about more than just giving Bucky the protein. He wants to make Bucky come, wants Bucky to come _for_ him. Guilt flushes through his veins, but the cold shock of confession isn’t enough to chase the heat away, the _need_ to be the reason for Bucky’s pleasure.

“ _Please,_ ” Bucky begs, and fire scorches Steve’s skin as Bucky reaches down to wrap his hand around Steve’s thrusting wrist.

Steve’s eyes lock on the vision of Bucky’s hand around his wrist, the _feel_ of Bucky’s skin against his, before the twitching cock on Bucky's belly steals his attention. The sight of it, along with the feel of Bucky’s balls, drawn up, tight and heavy against the heel of his hand, sends a thrill of pride through him.

“That’s it, Bucky. Are you ready to come?”

The hand on his wrist squeezes as Bucky’s head scrubs up and down on the table frantically. “Please don’t stop, please, I’m so close.”

The begging almost has Steve cursing and coming untouched, but he lifts his hand from Bucky’s belly, moving to reclaim the dildo. His peripheral vision fills with the sight of Bucky bringing his free hand to land where Steve’s had been and scratching over his skin, again and again, making pretty red marks on the pale flesh. 

Bucky keens, his legs quaking in the stirrups as Steve nudges the tip of the dildo in beside his fingers— no longer thrusting, just rubbing over his prostate in small, firm circles. The previously lax hole tightens, fighting the added girth and Steve winces. He’d been careless, had gotten too caught up in being inside of Bucky, and now he doesn’t have time to properly prepare Bucky for what’s about to come.

“You’re doing so great, Bucky. I need you to relax your body, take a deep breath for me.”

Bucky tries desperately to follow the request — trembling hips flex and give as they sink down, relaxing onto the table for a single heartbeat, but then they’re twitching up again, every fiber of his body wound too tightly, too close, chasing the peak of pleasure. 

Knowing Bucky's pleasure— his body—is only going to coil tighter, Steve forces the head of the cock inside, sliding the silicone in alongside his fingers. The unexpected pressure shocks a strangled _ngggh_ sound from Bucky’s throat. 

The ring struggles, stretching obscenely as Steve pushes the cock into place, until only the swollen knot remains outside. For a second, Steve is worried Bucky’s tortured rim is going to tear, but then it flutters, drawing in and relaxing in rapid succession, quivering and shuddering under his gaze. Bucky sucks in a wet gasp before bearing down, rocking his hips and moaning in pleasure not pain.

“Yes, oh god, make me come, please, I need to, need—” 

Releasing the dildo, Steve’s fingers come up to bruise into Bucky’s hip. He can feel Bucky's control giving way with the shaking of his body, hear it breaking in every begging word that falls from his lips. And Steve’s control is falling right along with it, now tethered by nothing more than rapidly fraying gossamer strings. 

Still, he works his fingers frantically, milking Bucky’s prostate, needing so desperately to push him over the edge. “Yeah, that’s it. You’re so good, Bucky, so good, but I need you to come for me now. Can you do that?”

“ _S-Steve!”_ Bucky’s mouth falls open, beautiful and ferocious pleasure sweeping across his face. His back jerks off the table, straining forward and his knees try and lift up, his body wanting to fold in on itself, spasming violently as his cock jumps and empties against his belly.

In one hard thrust, Steve buries the dildo to the hilt in Bucky’s ass as he slips his fingers free, the red, wet rim clenching down around the base of the cock after it swallows up the knot, fighting to close around the swollen lock. 

Dark lashes flutter down and Bucky’s head lolls against the bed as Steve stumbles back, one hand hastily clawing for the curtain hanging by the head of the table, ripping it across the tracks. Metal rings jangle and dance, stopping barely a quarter of the way around the table, but Steve's already careening backward on shaky legs. He ripes his gloves off and flings them away, before shoving a hand down his pants, wrapping a fist around the head of his throbbing cock. There’s not enough room to do much, but he’s so far gone it doesn’t matter. Three rough squeezes and a twist over the head and he’s coming with a grunt as he hits the wall behind him. His legs give out, and he skids down the wall, milking himself through his orgasm even as his ass hits the floor. 

His head drops back against his support, connecting with a dull thump. He slumps, hand still curled loosely around himself, waiting for his heart and breathing to slow, sharp aftershocks of pleasure pulsing through his knot.

A muted buzzing fills the room, making him jerk upright, fumbling his hand from his pants as he pushes to his feet. He wobbles unsteadily and stumbles forward to the door.

Throwing a hasty look in Bucky's direction, he flicks the intercom on the wall to the _off_ position before he cracks open the door, just enough to peer through.

“Wanda? What’s wrong? How, uh, how long have you been standing out here?”

“A couple of minutes. After you went full alpha mode on me earlier, I didn’t want to interrupt, but..” she shrugs, “I thought you’d died or something.”

Or something. Thank god for soundproofing. “I’m fine. What do you need?”

“You, in Clint’s office. Five minutes ago. Which is ten minutes after I sent the alert through.”

Steve turns, eyes darting to the blinking red light on the phone. He hadn’t even noticed it. But, in his defense, he’d been a little preoccupied. 

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

“Boss…”

“Wanda, it’s _fine_. I said I’d be there in a minute and I will. I just need to clean up, ah, Mr. Barnes and then, ah,” Steve wills his brain to focus, to recall his schedule from this morning “I’ll head straight in to see Nat and Bruce.”

Wanda shakes her head, the unnaturally red strands dancing over her shoulders. “Nope. They had to reschedule for tomorrow. And your new patient booked in after them canceled completely - maybe someone left a negative review on Yelp about the waiting times today.”

“ _Wanda.”_ Steve pinches the bridge of his nose, his tolerance for sass rapidly reaching its breaking point. “Tell me what you came to tell me and go back to work so I can do the same.”

“Jane’s your last appointment of the day, and she’s been waiting, _again_ , for like fifteen minutes. You really shouldn’t keep a pregnant lady waiting.”

“Uh-huh.” Steve says dryly, waiting for the other shoe to drop. “I don’t mean this unkindly, but you’ve never shown concern for anyone other than yourself, so what’s really going on?”

“Wow, that’s some serious shade, Boss. You think that I don’t—”

Steve raises an eyebrow and waits, watching the mock indignation crumble before his eyes.

“Fine,” she huffs. “We’re due to close in an hour, and I have plans tonight, good plans, plans I’ve been waiting all week for. So, if you could, you know, speed things up a bit, that’d be fantastic.”

And there it is. Steve smiles despite himself, forgetting for a moment he’s standing, reeking of sweat and come after losing all control ten feet away from a patient. “You’ll be out of here in time to keep your plans.”

“Promise?” Bright blue eyes narrow suspiciously.

“I promise.”

Wanda brightens. “Thanks, Boss!” Her hair bounces behind her as she all but skips away from the door. 

Steve closes the door gently, his long-suffering sigh covering the gentle _click._ Grabbing a packet of wipes from the supply cupboard, he shoves his pants down to his thighs, hissing quietly as cold air embraces heated skin. Carefully, mindful of the volume of liquid within, he removes the condom, tying the end and wrapping it in one wipe, using another to hastily clean his skin before balling it up with the rest of the waste.

He frowns as the scent of his latest humiliation rises to mock his nose.

Grabbing a roll-on scent blocker from the cabinet, he pops the cap, then rolls the stick through the hair above his cock and down over the gentle swell of his knot for good measure, pointedly ignoring the sparks of pleasure shadowing his motions.   
  
By the time he’s returned the blockers, redressed himself, and disposed of the waste, peppermint is rising from his skin, eating up the smell of sweat and come, and the breakout traces of his own musk. The familiar scent is a balm to his agitated nerves.

He could have chosen one of a thousand scents or had a different one for every day of the week. Some alphas, like Clint, prefer to mix things up, a different scent for every mood, though most of Clint’s moods tend to have him smelling like particularly dark roast coffee beans. Steve, on the other hand, has always been partial to peppermint. Its spicy but cool and slightly sweet aroma makes him think of the holidays and candy canes melting in hot chocolate. 

As he moves Bucky’s legs from the stirrups and starts making him more comfortable on the table, curiosity begins to nibble at the corners of Steve’s mind, and he finds himself wondering what Bucky thinks of the scent. They hadn’t engaged in much small talk before… _everything_ , and it’s not something he can just come out and ask. But for some reason, he finds himself wanting to know if Bucky likes it. _For some reason,_ Steve snorts. He _knows_ the reason all too well.

He lifts Bucky from the table carefully, moving him into position and lowering him back down, letting his hands trail over the back of warm, naked thighs before falling away into cold nothingness. 

Bucky doesn’t stir when Steve places the pillow under his head, doesn’t curl up when the blanket is draped over him, and Steve frowns down at him, worming his fingers under the edge of the cover to find the pulse point on Bucky’s wrist. 

The beat is steady, though a little faster than he’d like. Steve lets his fingers linger on Bucky’s wrist, rubbing over the warm skin gently. After the amount of fluid Bucky’s lost, he’s probably dehydrated; that would account for the quickened pulse and increased lethargy. Out of habit, his eyes dart to the clock, and remembering his promise to Wanda, he reluctantly slides his hand away. 

Bucky looks utterly exhausted; cheeks flushed, eyes static behind closed lids, a small bead of drool forming at the corner of his open mouth. Resisting the urge to bend and plant a kiss to Bucky’s forehead —because fuck, could he be _more_ unprofessional today? — Steve steps back, away from the table.

“You’re doing so good, being so brave, Bucky. Just rest now, I’ll be back soon.”

Steve slips from the room and makes his way to Clint’s office again. Each step feels like pushing through water, fighting against an invisible current that wants to sweep him back to his office, back to Bucky.

On leaden legs, he forces himself forward, until he’s staring down at a very pregnant, very uncomfortable looking omega propped on one of Clint’s ridiculous stools.

“Shit, Jane, I’m sorry. Wanda should have brought you a real chair.”

Jane waves off his concerns with a smile. “Honestly, I’m at the point where it doesn’t matter; everything is uncomfortable when you’re as big as a house.”

“Well, let’s get you up on the table anyway. It’s at least a little better than these stupid stools.”

Jane laughs and takes Steve’s offered hand, letting him help her unfold herself from the chair and escort her to the table.

Steve stands on the foot pedal by the table, lowering it to Jane’s height before placing his hand under her elbow, holding her steady while she sits on the edge and wiggles backward. She lifts her legs onto the flat surface as she leans back, shuffling to try and find a comfortable spot. After a moment, she either finds it or gives up — the latter if the small groan is anything to go by.

“I know I said I didn’t want to know the sex until he or she is born, but a friend is throwing me a baby shower, and she convinced me to let her make it a gender reveal party. Could you write the sex in an envelope for me, and maybe the designation, too? Might as well get all the surprises out in one fell swoop.”

“Sure, that’s no problem,” Steve replies, maneuvering the ultrasound machine Wanda had prepared a little closer. Maybe Wanda deserves that raise after all. Attitude aside, she does have initiative. “Is Thor on board with the reveal coming early?”

Jane grins as she lifts her shirt, exposing the beautiful curve eight months in the making. “Oh, you know him, he wanted to know the minute we found out we were pregnant. He gave in when I said I wanted to be surprised, but I figure I’ve made him wait long enough. It won't hurt to split the difference.”

Steve snaps on a set of gloves, then grabs the bottle of gel from the trolley. “This might be a little cold,” he warns before squirting the clear fluid onto her belly.

“It’s funny, you know. Everyone kept telling me I wasn’t getting any younger and asking if my biological clock was broken, and sometimes, I thought it must be. I’d never even thought of having a baby, didn’t even know if I _wanted_ to. I only even considered it because of how much T wanted one.” Jane runs a hand over her belly gently, above the smears of lubricant, and smiles so tenderly Steve feels like a voyeur, an intruder in a private moment, and he looks away, putting the bottle back on the tray, and picking up the ultrasound wand. “But now, I can’t think of anything I want _more._ It’s strange how some of the things we desire most have to find us, not the other way ‘round.”

An image of Bucky bursts bright before his eyes, and Steve blinks it away. “Yeah, I know what you mean.” As he presses the wand to Jane’s belly, the screen fills with indistinct patches of monochrome shapes surrounding a dark void. He angles it to the side, pressing in deeper, watching as new forms emerge from the darkness, new streaks of white highlighting the small frame nestled in Jane’s womb. 

“Have you ever thought about it?”

Steve hums questioningly as he moves the wand over Jane’s belly, watching the grainy image of the screen roll and pulse and shift, as he goes through the checklist in his head to make sure both mamma and pup are safe and healthy. 

“Have you ever thought about having children of your own? I can just imagine a litter of little Steves tearing around the place, all with a mop of blond hair and tiny toy stethoscopes around their necks,” she giggles, giving him a wink.

Steve’s laugh dies in his throat as something twists tightly in his chest. A flash of a beautiful, dark-haired pup sears into his mind, chubby little cheeks dusted with pink, smelling like sugar cookies. 

“...Steve?”

“Uhh.” Realizing his jaw has gone slack as his hand, Steve snaps his mouth closed and plasters on a smile, tightening his grip on the ultrasound wand. “Sorry, got lost in my thoughts for a minute.”

“Uh-huh, I noticed. Anyone I know?” Jane teases not unkindly. 

“What? No, it’s not, I just...” Steve feels his cheeks heat, and he shakes his head, turning back to the screen, dragging the wand through the gel, searching for a good angle. Using his free hand, he hits a button on the machine, and in the corner, a machine whirs to life, printing the image he’d captured. “Would you like to hear the heartbeat?” 

He knows his attempt at diverting Jane’s amused scrutiny is as transparent as freshly washed glass, but it doesn’t matter because it works. Steve risks a peek to her face just in time to see it light up as she nods. “Yes, please.”

The image on the screen shrinks when he presses another series of buttons, a small graph pulsing into view as the sound of a rapid heartbeat fills the room. 

He’s heard it too many times to count, like galloping hoofbeats racing inside Jane's belly, but to her it’s new, and might as well be the sound of the stars singing. Her eyes well up, shining brightly as she wraps both arms around her belly, heedless of the glistening gel coating her skin.

“It’s so fast.”

“It’s completely normal, your baby and you are both in perfect health,” Steve murmurs, his own heart aching watching the fierce joy bloom over Jane’s face. 

“Thank you, Steve.”

“There’s nothing to thank me for; you did all the hard work. And, well, I suppose Thor helped a little, too,” Steve chuckles.

Jane lifts a hand and slips it into his. “No,” she says earnestly. “You did this. You _gave_ us this. Without the clinic, without _you,_ we wouldn’t have _this._ ” She rubs her belly. “After the test results came back and it looked like I was going to lose—" she breaks off, eyes downcast for a moment before she raises them back to Steve, tears clinging to her lashes. "You gave us a miracle. You _are_ a miracle, Steve. _Thank you._ ”

Steve’s heart swells into his throat, pride and happiness warming his chest. All he’d ever wanted to do was to help people, to help omegas like he wishes someone had been able to help his mom. The smile on his lips wavers, a little grief slipping through the cracks but then they're curving back up again. She would be so proud of him, some part of him just _knows_ , can feel it. He’d turned tragedy into hope, into action. He’d been able to make a small difference in people's lives, and knowing that, knowing another precious life would be coming into the world in some small part because of him is an overwhelming feeling.

“You’re welcome,” he murmurs. His gaze lingers on the round curve of Jane’s belly, a strange sense of melancholy settling into his bones, the image of the dark-haired pup swimming back into his mind. 

Setting the ultrasound wand back into place, he switches the screen off and discards his gloves.

“You know, I was thinking. You should come.”

Steve jerks his head up, nearly dropping the paper towel roll now clutched in his hands. “Uh, what was that?”

“To the baby shower. It’s going to be great. I have plenty of friends who would love to meet the miracle worker-slash-doctor.”

“Oh.” Steve shakes his head, hoping his cheeks aren’t as red as they feel. “You’re exaggerating,” he blurts, rolling a wad of paper towel around his hand before ripping it from the roll, and then wiping it gently across Jane’s belly, collecting the gel.

“Am I? Which part? About the miracle worker or the friends who would love to meet you?”

“Both, probably,” Steve mutters, pushing the paper into the general waste bin by Clint’s desk. 

“You sell yourself short and underestimate my friends. My very _single_ friends of varying designations.” Jane wags her eyebrows as she pulls her shirt back down over her belly. “No, but really, you should be there. I wouldn’t even need the party without you.” She struggles on the table, trying to sit up, and Steve rushes over to help. Hooking his hands under her arms, he lifts her to a sitting position before swiveling her on the spot, letting her legs dangle off the side, an inch from the ground. 

“Thanks.” She smiles up at him as she slides off the bed. “Steve, I mean it, I’d love it if you’d come. Will you think about it, at least?”

Steve can’t think of anything he wants less than to be trapped in a room with a bunch of Jane’s single friends, all eyeing him like a prize at the bottom of a cereal box. “I’m busy.”

Jane’s laugh bubbles from her throat as she returns to the stool by Clint’s desk. She lifts a bag Steve hadn’t noticed from the ground and rummages around inside it. “I didn’t even tell you what day it is yet.”

“Oh. I, uh, I’m busy a lot,” Steve stammers. 

“Uh-huh.” Jane straightens and holds out an invitation.

Steve takes it and stares down at the tiny pink and blue origami stars glued to the heavy cardstock. Someone had obviously gone to a lot of trouble to make it.

“I promise my friends won’t eat you alive; they have good manners… mostly. Single friends aside, it should be a lot of fun. Darce has gone all out with the planning: she’s rented a karaoke machine, one of those old school photo booths, and even hired a caterer to deck the place out with cakes, macarons, and sugar cookies. I swear she—”

“Sugar cookies?” Steve’s head snaps up. 

“Big sugar cookie fan?”

“Ah, yeah.” Steve wrings a hand over the back of his neck, the heat there biting at his palm.

“I’m more of a pie person myself, but Darce swears these will change my mind. A friend of hers makes them, who, conveniently, lives in her building.”

Steve’s eyes drop straight back to the invitation in his hand, rushing over the information about the _who_ , the _why_ , and the _when_ until he gets to the _where_ and his heart jumps into his throat.

“So, is the promise of sugar cookies enough to get you to think about putting in an appearance?” Jane hoists her bag over her shoulder and waits in the doorway, a hopeful look on her face. 

He folds the invitation, careful to avoid the small stars, and nods as he pushes it into his back pocket. “I’ll think about it.”

“Great!” Jane beams up at him. 

“Oh! I nearly forgot.” Steve hurries across to the printer and takes the image from the machine. He grabs a pen from Clint’s desk and prints the baby’s gender on the back. It takes him a moment to run through his memory to find the blood test results from Jane’s third visit. He adds the designation under the gender then slips the paper into an envelope. He runs his tongue over the seal, then pressing the flap in place, firmly securing the precious cargo. 

“Here—” Steve hands the envelope to Jane “—hard to have a reveal party without something to reveal.”

Jane chuckles as she takes it and tucks it into her bag. “Thanks. Pregnancy-brain is a real thing, and I kind of hate it.” 

Steve places a hand under Jane’s elbow as he escorts her from the office. “It’ll all be worth it in a month. You’ll forget the pregnancy-brain and the bloating, the weird cravings and the hormonal swings, and the only thing you’ll remember is the feeling of your heart expanding in your chest, struggling to fit all the love you feel for your new pup.”

Jane’s eyes are shining again as she stretches up on her toes to press a kiss to Steve's cheek. “I’ll see you at the party,” she murmurs with a wink, handing Wanda her card. 

“Wanda, after you fix Jane up, you can go.”

“What? Why? You still have—”

“It’s fine. I can handle Mr. Barnes myself.”

Wanda keys the data into the computer, swipes the card, prints out a receipt, and hands them both to Jane. “Your next appointment is in three weeks... if you don’t pop before then.”

“ _Wanda.”_

Jane grins. “It’s fine. Yeah, I’ll be here unless...” she gestures vaguely to her belly. “Thanks again, Steve,” she calls, waving over her shoulder as she heads for the front door. “Have a good night, Wanda.”

Wanda waits until the doors have slid shut behind Jane, then she turns on Steve. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”

“What? Who?”

“The guy in your office. He’s been in there for _hours_ , and you’re acting all shifty. Something went wrong, and you’re waiting until I leave to call the cops, aren’t you?”

“Jesus, Wanda, no. He’s _fine_.”

“Then why’s he been in there all afternoon?”

“You know I can’t tell you that. Look, he’s fine, I promise. I also promised that you would be out of here in time to keep your plans. This is me keeping that promise. Just lock up the front, and I’ll let him out the back with me once he’s done.”

Wanda’s head swivels from the clock to the front door to Steve’s closed office door and back to the clock. “Alright,” she grumbles, disappearing from view, bending to collect her belongings from the drawer beside the desk. She reappears, grimacing as she hefts her messenger bag over her shoulder. She brushes her hair out of her face and tugs it free from under the strap of her bag as she moves past Steve. “I’m not saying there _is_ a dead body in your office—”

“ _Wanda.”_

“—but _if_ there is, you could maybe call my phone in an hour or so and leave a message telling me I don’t need to come into work in the morning, you know, on account of it being a crime scene and all.”

“Jesus Christ, Maximoff—” Steve scrubs a hand through his hair as Wanda slips through the doors, waving cheerily from the other side of the glass. She locks them, then turns away without a backward glance, already putting her phone to her ear. 

The knowledge that he’s alone in the clinic with Bucky makes him suddenly anxious. The lack of other people, other patients, somehow stripping away the professional veneer he’d tried so desperately to cling to. Well, until… until it had crumbled under his fingertips.  
  
And, Jesus, how it had crumbled. He’d been so fucking stupid, so reckless earlier. Bucky could have heard him, could have _seen_ him. Jerking off in the bathroom was bad enough, but in the same room? Steve runs his hands through his hair, scratching his nails sharply over his scalp, the bite of pain grounding him.

Still, it takes three deep breaths and countless ignored impulses sent to his feet before they finally move, dragging over the carpet like he’s walking to his execution. He pauses at the doorway to the staff break room, unsure of what made him stop. His eye catches on the bar fridge nestled on a bench between the toaster and the microwave—Clint’s genius planning—and moves to it, letting his body follow a to do list his mind isn’t privy to. It’s only when he’s reaching into the cool interior and pulling out an orange juice box, that Steve remembers what he’d forgotten to recall. 

His legs move quicker now, having a plan of action to focus on, one aside from… what he’s dreading. He opens the door to his office, not bothering to close it behind him as he strides through.

“Bucky?” With one hand curled around the drink, Steve rakes his other through Bucky’s hair, the long locks tickling his skin as he repeats the motion, again and again, trying to convince himself he’s just providing tactile sensation to try and wake Bucky, and nothing else. 

“Bucky, it’s Steve. It’s time for your last procedure,” Steve asserts more loudly, watching for any sign of Bucky waking. But the blanket-covered chest continues to expand and constrict steadily, deep and even, and dark lashes don’t so much as flutter. 

After discarding the juice on his desk, finally admitting Bucky is in no condition to drink it, Steve sets about getting Bucky ready for the last procedure — removing the pillow and blanket, moving him down the table, placing his feet in the stirrups, reconnecting the machine, and adding the final protein vial for the day. 

Standing beside the table by Bucky’s chest, Steve stares down at him, his heart thumping in his throat. Even after all the jostling and moving, Bucky is no closer to consciousness than he was when Steve walked through the door. He knows he promised Bucky, but… 

Placing his hands on Bucky’s shoulders, he shakes gently. “Bucky, can you open your eyes for me?” _Please, please, please._ “Can you wake up for me?” _Please._ He releases Bucky, and silent prayers go unanswered when he remains quiet and still on the table, the only movement is the rise and fall of his chest. 

Steve’s in a hell of his own making; he should have never promised Bucky _this._ Letting frustration temporarily eat through his anxiety, he stomps to the end of the table. He snaps on his gloves, grimacing in perverse satisfaction as it catches his wrist sharply. He welcomes the stinging distraction.  
  
But the pain fades and his frustration burns out, and he’s standing, eyes locked between Bucky’s spread thighs, at his fucked out hole, at the leaking mess of slick and protein escaping around the edges of the now deflated knot.  
  
Bucky looks so utterly debauched, so _wrecked_ , and Steve’s traitorous cock twitches in his pants. He grits his teeth and turns away, jabbing at the machine harder than strictly necessary to reset it. He is going to stay clinical and fucking detached during this procedure if it kills him. He can’t think about _that_ … not while Bucky's unconscious. 

Resolve bolstered, he presses the final button and starts the last procedure. Without Bucky’s sugared sounds for cover, the room is filled with obscene, _wet_ noises as the machine picks up speed. 

Steve’s fingers only tremble a little as he lifts the green gown, exposing Bucky’s cock completely. He has no idea if this is going to work, so he’ll need to see when Bucky comes— _if he comes_ —to make sure the machine does what it’s supposed to, _when_ it’s supposed to. 

_Fifteen, sixteen, seventeen…_

At some point, Steve loses track of the thrusts as the machine hammers into Bucky’s body, each brutal stab inside him connecting with his prostate, making his whole body twitch on the table like a live current is feeding into him, shocking him. His cock is hard now, with only a smear of precome wetting the tip, jerking on his belly with every thrust. 

Steve’s own cock throbs to life, watching Bucky jolt on the table, and he curls his hands into fists, willing the reaction away, dragging his eyes to the clock on the wall. But the hand doesn’t make a whole revolution before his eyes slide back down to Bucky. 

He’s so beautiful like this, so lax, the motion rippling through him like the wind on water, pleasure jolting through his body with no resistance. No tensing of muscles, no straining, no fighting or chasing pleasure, just letting it wash through him. 

What would it be like, to take Bucky like this? The thought spirals straight to Steve’s cock, hard and heavy in his pants. The images play out in front of his open eyes— waking, hard and needy in the middle of the night, reaching for his omega, pulling Bucky back onto his cock, and losing himself inside the slick, welcoming heat.

Steve’s cock throbs wetly, straining painfully in his pants. Oh, _fuck.  
  
_Bucky would be so soft and pliant, pleasure rippling through him each long drive into his body. No hands twisting in the sheets or back arching, just lean limbs dangling loosely as Steve gathers his sleeping beauty into his arms, all supple and yielding, dark hair tickling his back, Bucky's head lolling on his shoulder as he rocks up into that slick little hole, gripping Bucky's hips, lifting and pulling, fucking himself with Bucky's body.  
  
_Would_ there be resistance? Would Bucky feel him and know, even in sleep, his alpha is taking him? Would his pretty little rim clench down, unconsciously searching for Steve’s knot, wanting to be filled? Or would he be open and easy, taking Steve’s deep slides into his belly, letting them push sleepy little whimpers from his chest? Would Bucky wake up? Writhing, clawing at him desperately, coming to waking stretched around Steve’s cock, begging and pleading for _more._

The high-pitched whine from the bed shatters the fantasy, sending shame burning over his skin. His gaze darts to Bucky’s face, taking in the still-closed eyes, then down to the now-full knot as it drives into Bucky’s ass one last time. Steve crushes himself against the table, bracing while pain flares white-hot in his cock; the only thing stopping him spilling in his pants watching Bucky’s cock jerk, almost coming dry, only a thin stream of release leaking from the head, dribbling into the condom. 

He tugs the gown down to cover Bucky before folding his arms over his chest, tucking his hands under his armpits, away from temptation. There's no way he's going to jerk off after that, to _that._ He files his lower lip through his teeth, ignoring the way his fingers twitch, aching to curl around himself… _again.  
  
Jesus, _what the fuck is wrong with him? He's never, ever thought about _that. Ever._ The souring of his gut doesn’t do a damn thing to cool the molten heat coiling there.

He searches the room for a distraction, any distraction, groaning when the flash of color between Bucky's thighs pulls his focus. The surface of the mat is glistening, a thin film of Bucky’s slick laying atop it, shining under the streaks and drops of errant protein. Steve swipes his tongue over his lips. He knows precisely how absorbent these mats are… and Bucky has flooded it with more than it can hold. 

_Taxes. Autopsies. That cloyingly floral scent Old Mrs. Philips wears much too much of._ Steve tries frantically to dredge up images, thoughts, sounds and smells _—_ anything to break the new desire throbbing through him. 

He needs, he _needs…_ _No!_ The growl bursts free from his chest, low and long. _Bucky needs_. Bucky needs to be cleaned up, needs to be made more comfortable, and he really, really needs an IV to replace his lost fluids.

Steve forces a slow, deep breath into his lungs, concentrating on the feel of the air filtering down, his chest expanding, his heart stuttering and slowing. Nine breaths later, he winces as he moves away from the table, at the sudden release of pressure. 

Grateful to have something to focus on, he follows the now-familiar routine of making Bucky more comfortable before he sets up the IV and carefully inserts a cannula into Bucky’s arm. Under normal circumstances, he would wait to get permission for an invasive procedure, but, well, things couldn’t get any further away from _normal_ if he tried. 

Tasks complete, Steve moves to his desk and collapses heavily into his chair with a tired sigh. Heavy-lidded eyes flick to the clock, and he curses under his breath. His head falls back against the chair. He had no idea how much of a complete disaster today would become when he dragged himself out of bed this morning. And now, all he wants is to drag himself back there.  
  
Maybe when he wakes up in the morning, he’ll find this was nothing but a dream, and Bucky isn’t his patient. He can wake up and march down to Bucky’s door and finally ask him out. Maybe he’ll ask Bucky to teach him to bake. Steve smiles at the idea, his eyelids fluttering closed.

He can picture it perfectly, talking and laughing in Bucky’s kitchen. Maybe he'll spill a little icing sugar, watch the white cloud fill the air and settle on Bucky's skin, dusting over his cheeks. And maybe he can bend down and lick it off, following the trail to those beautiful lips…

It’s the last thought Steve has before exhaustion claims him.


	5. Count Backward From Ten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. TW for mentions of non-con ..things. Vibes? Intentions! You get where I'm going with this, right? Just be warned if it's squicky to you.
> 
> ii. I am in the process of going back through the hundreds of comments on APP to make notes of who to thank for the brain bunnies I stole to put into this story. But.. I haven't got there yet. So, if you were responsible for helping bring the 'door' moment to life, I thank you for letting me steal your ideas and I'll edit this later with proper credit. <3
> 
> iii. Wherein there is no porn, but Steeb turns into a sailor (not literally, just verbally). 
> 
> iv. You know the drill, I gave you words, so gimme your reactions! Flailing, shouting, grumbling, gifs, emojis, shaking fists, and more are all valid and welcome. Or come play with me on tumblr (warning, I have a gif-abuse problem) @thewaythatwerust! <3 (unless you don't wanna be spoiled because I overshare WIPs/sneak peeks like whoa).

Steve’s toes curl in the carpet, trying to anchor himself to the soft loft. His aching muscles twitch and shift, vibrating with the need to _move,_ agitation crawling through him like an army of ants itching under his skin. The blunt pressure of nails against his palms eases as he unclenches his hands and tries in vain to shake the tremble out of them. 

This is possibly the worst idea he’s ever had. 

The ragged breath that fills his mouth does nothing to ease the restlessness coursing through him, not when he can _taste_ Bucky on the air. 

As if conjured by name alone, Bucky’s face flashes before his open eyes, unmooring him and jolting him back into motion. His bare feet once again finding the invisible track he’s been wearing into the carpet for the last forty-three minutes — forty-one minutes after he’d carried Bucky, wrapped in a blanket, up six flights of stairs. 

To his apartment. 

To his bedroom. 

To his _bed._

Yeah. It’s _definitely_ his worst idea, ever.

Though in his defense, it’s not like he had a _choice._ First, Bucky had resisted Steve’s every attempt to wake him, then there’d been no keys in the pockets of his clothes. The third and final strike had come when he'd lifted Bucky into his arms and caught that familiar sweetness dancing on the air, rising from Bucky’s skin.

Bucky’s body had burned through the blockers much _, much_ too quickly. It had to be a result of the low protein levels, though Steve isn’t sure how. He’s never heard of them wearing off early, but then, Bucky is proving to be the exception to every rule in the book. 

Still, knowing the _why_ would have had little effect on the only logical conclusion he’d been able to find in his scent-shook brain: Bucky had to come home with him. There’s no way in hell he could leave the omega in an unsecured apartment smelling like _that_ _._ That would be tantamount to ringing the dinner bell for any unscrupulous alpha in the entire fucking city.

So, now, Steve is pacing, trying not to choke on the honeyed air—or the desire it’s triggering inside him—as he works up the nerve to go back into his bedroom.

It takes five more loops of his living room to regain some small semblance of control.  
  
Squaring his shoulders and ignoring the twin throbbing pains in his head and his cock, Steve marches into his bedroom. But the steel in his body turns molten as he lays eyes on the most gorgeous creature he’s ever seen in his bed—or outside it—curled up on his side, a fallen lock of hair resting on his face fluttering gently with every soft exhale. Steve's heart swells with warmth.

“Bucky?” When his voice doesn’t garner so much as a twitch of responsiveness, scent-fueled temptation bests exhausted-control, and Steve bends and runs his fingers through Bucky’s hair gently, careful to avoid tugging on the knots tangling the long strands together. “Can you open your eyes for me?”

Long lashes tremble on flushed cheeks, flittering before they lift and hold and light eyes finally, _finally_ come into view. 

“Hey, there you are.” Relief rides every word, slipping from Steve’s lungs on a shaky breath. A modicum of the tension knitting his shoulders together eases. “How are you feeling? Do you think you can sit up?”

Bucky blinks slowly as he looks around the room, confusion tugging his brows together. The sugared air sours as his eyes grow wide, and he scrambles backward on the bed until his back meets the headboard with a muted _thump_ , though panicked legs continue to kick at the blanket covering them. His head jerks from the door to the single window in the room. The frantic motion overwhelms him, sending him pitching sideways with a shocked gasp. 

Steve’s hand clamps down over Bucky’s shoulder and course-corrects him, pulling him back and up. “Whoa, whoa, easy. You’re okay, Bucky, you’re safe, it’s just me. It’s Steve.”

The astringent scent spikes at the contact, and Bucky’s pupils expand, trying valiantly to swallow up the bright ring of fear surrounding them. Steve drops to his knees by the bed and lifts his hands, palms flat toward Bucky, removing any perceived threat. “It’s okay. You’re okay,” he murmurs, keeping his voice low and calm, watching the rapid rise and fall of Bucky’s chest slow slightly from his peripheral vision. “You’re fine; just take your time. You’ve been out for a few hours.”

“Where am I?” Bucky’s panic seems to be fading, but those light eyes are still drowning in too much darkness.

“I brought you home.”

“This… isn’t my home,” Bucky draws out each word slowly, sounding uncertain as his eyes make another sweep of the room.

“No. It’s mine.” Steve lets his hands fall to his lap, locking his fingers. “I couldn’t rouse you at the clinic, but your stats were stable, and I promised…” He shrugs one shoulder carefully. “I wanted to keep you close, to keep an eye on you until you regained consciousness, just to be sure. I’m sorry if I overstepped.” Steve pushes the last of the words out with difficulty, his brain calling bullshit before his tongue wraps around the syllables. _If_ he’d overstepped? Of course, he’d overstepped. Bringing a patient home with him like a stray kitten, Clint will have a field day with this one. 

“No, that’s — no. Thank you, I think.” Bucky runs a hand through his tangled hair and winces, stopping the movement half-completed to glare at the bandaid on his inner arm. 

“Oh, I had to insert a cannula for the IV. I needed to give you fluids after…” Steve breaks off, not entirely sure how to finish the sentence. _‘After you came three times and flooded the high-absorbency mat with enough slick to render it useless,’_ didn’t quite have a professional ring to it. Blood rushes up his neck, and he’s torn between being mortified and grateful for the slight reprieve for his cock. “You were severely dehydrated. Your clothes are there when you’d like to get changed,” he adds, nodding to the neatly folded pile of fabric he'd placed at the foot of the bed. “I didn’t want to dress you while you were unconscious.”

Bucky’s gaze fixes on the clothing, pink dusting his cheeks. “How did I get here?”

Steve’s hands twitch in his lap. The phantom feeling of having Bucky cradled in his arms as he’d carried him to his car and then from his car to his apartment had somehow been the highlight of his day... which, after the events that preceded it is a strange thing to lay claim to. “I drove you home with me, and then I carried you up here.”

Bucky’s gaze snaps back to Steve’s face as he squirms on the bed, and suddenly, Steve is struck by how completely inappropriate that must sound. Inappropriate and possibly menacing. His pulse kicks up. He should say something else, _anything_ else… explain it was necessary, that he couldn’t find any keys, and the scent blockers were wearing off, and...

“Did you, um, did I get all three?”

Steve blinks rapidly at the sudden shift in conversation before memories of the third session and his agonizing reaction to it flare in his mind, and unable to hold Bucky’s gaze, he drops his to his hands. “Yeah.” He twists his fingers together anxiously. “You were pretty out of it for the third procedure. Your levels came up enough for me to keep my promise, but they’re still critically low. That’s why I brought you here, though—” Steve’s gut twists as a new thought occurs to him. Jesus. Does Bucky think...? “You _are_ free to leave at any time; I’m not keeping you here,” his words come out in a rush. “I just thought it would be _better_ here. The scent blocker I gave you wore off, and it seemed safer to have you here, at least until you woke up. My scent won’t mask yours, but it will keep other alphas away, stop them from trying to take advantage. You’re welcome to stay here; you can have my bed. I’ll take the couch, of course," he adds hastily. “I would feel better if I could check on you during the night — your vitals, I mean. But it’s your decision. If you’d feel more comfortable, I can help you downstairs if that’s what you want. Whatever you want, Bucky.”

Steve’s heart is beating in his throat by the time he finishes and draws a shaky breath, replacing the air the stream of words have stolen from his lungs. He wants so desperately for Bucky to stay, for Bucky to _want_ to stay. To have him close — even if that closeness will be torture. But he’d survived worse today, admittedly not _well,_ but he _had,_ and knowing Bucky is in his bed, safe, would be worth one more sleepless night. And it can’t be as hard as a day spent watching Bucky writhe and moan and come calling his name. ...Right?

The combination of vivid memories and Bucky's potent scent sends a new wave of heat pulsing to his belly, but Steve keeps his breathing even and his face calm, not wanting his reaction to influence Bucky’s decision. His efforts are for naught, though; one glimpse at the pained expression on Bucky’s face has his heart sinking.

“I appreciate everything, really, I can’t tell you how much, but I — I can’t stay.” 

Steve’s eyes dip back to his hands as he struggles to keep the disappointment from showing on his face. “Of course. I’ll leave you to get dressed, and then I’ll help you to your apartment.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I want to,” Steve states simply as he rises. He needs to know Bucky will be safe. He takes one last look at the beautiful man in his bed, searing the image into his memory before moving stiffly to the door.

“Uh, Steve? The, um, the p-plug?” Bucky stammers. “What do I...?”

“Oh. I’m sorry, I had to, you were leaking…” Steve’s hand clenches reflexively around the doorknob as his brain so helpfully supplies visuals to go with his explanation. The flush from his neck swarms into his cheeks. _Leaking?_ Another mark in the professional column. He clears his throat before swallowing down the rough sound. “Your body should have absorbed the protein by now, so you’re fine to take it out. Or I — if you need help...” _Fuck!_ Why the fuck had he offered to _help?_ He sounds like a moron from a porn movie, and a _bad_ one at that. Panic claws at his throat. But luckily or not, dark hair dances over Bucky's shoulders as he shakes his head and Steve nods his own understanding, relief and disappointment warring for top spot in his gut. “Then you can remove it and discard it here or when you get home. We’ll use a fresh one for your session tomorrow.”

There’s a soft hitch to Bucky’s voice as he answers. “Okay. Thank you.”  
  
The smile that Steve tries for feels like a grimace, and he pulls the door closed quickly, hoping Bucky hadn’t noticed. He drops his head down against the wooden barrier separating him from Bucky.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Barely resisting the urge to bang his head into the door repeatedly, doubting a concussion will help the fog already swirling within it, Steve wrestles with his basal instincts. Being around Bucky, it seems, means being in a constant state of hyper-arousal, fighting tooth and nail to control his desires, and to keep his foot away from his mouth.

But it’s perfectly normal for him to react this way, he tells himself in his best physician's voice. Heat-scent is nature’s way of ensuring the continuation of the species, to tempt alphas to… to _breed._ Steve rails his teeth together before adjusting himself, hissing at the feel of his hand wrapped around his aching cock.  
  
He has no idea how he’s going to get through tomorrow. In theory, it shouldn’t be so bad. With the influx of protein into Bucky's system, the intensity of his heat should start to ease, and his scent along with it. Treating him, hell, just being around him should come easier after today. The thought makes Steve frown. For some reason, he doesn't think it will be quite that simple. 

Steve drags his head over the painted wood of the door, concentrating on the texture and the temperature, smooth and cool beneath his skin. He pulls more cotton candy air into his lungs. Though it’s torture to be so close to Bucky in heat, he’s overcome by the absolute certainty that he would rather be in pain beside Bucky than at ease without him. 

A small gasp sounds through the door, and Steve snaps upright immediately, hand closing loosely over the knob. “Bucky? Are you okay in there?”

The lack of reply has Steve’s muscles tensing, screaming at him to burst through the door, to see for himself that Bucky’s okay. Did he have a reaction? Did he pass out? Did he fall? Steve counts in his head, resolving to give Bucky ten seconds, but by the time he’s at four he’s lowered the count to five, and he’s about to give in when the knob twists in his hand and the door sweeps away from his face. 

Bucky gives a startled gasp as he stumbles backward, tripping over his feet, shock blooming over his face. Without thinking, Steve wraps his hands around Bucky’s arms, stopping his backward momentum before tugging him forward, back onto his feet. It’s the first time today Steve’s been grateful for his instincts. 

Steve’s hands linger once Bucky's upright, unwilling or unable to break their connection so soon. He leans a little closer, edging into Bucky’s space, searching those gray-blue eyes for blown or uneven pupils, or any sign that something's wrong. “Are you sure you’re okay? Do you feel dizzy? Light-headed?” 

“I —yeah, I’m good, thanks to you. You’re quickly becoming my own personal anti-gravity device.” The smile Bucky flashes is a little shaky but genuine, and so beautiful it steals Steve’s breath away. 

It takes a moment for his lungs to start functioning normally again, but when they do, Steve can’t help his lips mirroring Bucky’s. “Well, I may have to give up the doctor gig so I can be around to catch you. Keeping you on your feet seems to be a full-time job,” Steve says softly. The words ring false in his own ears — what he really wants to do is sweep Bucky _off_ his feet, instead.

Bucky’s laughter is warm and sweet, and an inordinate sense of pride balloons in Steve's chest, preening at eliciting such a reaction.  
  
“It’s not my fault gravity loves me, I’m a lovable kind of guy.” 

It’s the understatement of the year. Steve wants to lean in, brush his lips over Bucky’s slightly chapped ones, breathing a soft ‘I know’ into his mouth. It’s a heady thought and Steve can’t stop himself searching those light eyes for any flicker of reciprocated interest, but they’re just shining up at him, twinkling with mirth.  
  
Reluctantly, Steve lifts his hands. “I’m sure,” he murmurs. His hands are cold, empty without Bucky under them, and he reaches out and places one on the small of Bucky’s back, using it as an excuse to guide him toward the door slowly. Each step is like pushing through molasses, his motions heavy with disappointment. “Just remember, if you feel sick during the night, or you’re worried at all, about _anything_ , please don’t hesitate to come to me.”

Bucky’s body presses against his perfectly as they move in unison to the stairwell, and Steve's overcome with how _right_ it feels to have Bucky beside him.

The fourteen stairs separating his apartment and Bucky’s pass much too quickly, and Steve spends every second trying desperately to think of something to say. To tempt another smile or laugh from the man beside him, but Bucky’s nearness and sweet-scent make him oddly nervous and tongue-tied. 

At their destination, Bucky steps away from Steve's hand, turning to face him, his back to his door. Steve shifts his weight anxiously under the weight of Bucky's silent stare. Feeling off-balance is a novel sensation for him, though strange and unsettling, like falling while standing still. But, gazing down into the beautiful face before him, he’s not so sure he _isn’t_ falling.

“Bucky, I’d like to—”

“Watch out, coming through!”

Something smacks into him from behind, knocking him into Bucky and driving him hard against the door. Steve’s thigh wedges between Bucky’s as he plants his hands on the door to try and stop his fall, either side of Bucky’s body, boxing him in. The momentum carries him forward, his face pressing into Bucky’s neck. It happens in an instant; Steve’s head lifting, twisting, moving without conscious intent, finding that sweet spot behind Bucky’s ear, pressing into it, rubbing over it— _scenting him._

His lungs are on fire. His whole body is on fire. The scent of Bucky —fresh lavender, golden honey and broiling sugar— fills his head and scorches through his veins, and he’s throbbing and burning and aching. He wants to growl, _to roar._ Wants to take Bucky here, right here, hard against the door, for everyone to see, to watch, to _know_ that _Bucky is his_.

He jerks his head back, fixing his eyes on Bucky's, watching them widen and darken under his gaze. Through the haze in his mind, he becomes aware of the pressure at the back of his neck, Clint’s shirt cutting into him, and he looks down to see Bucky’s hands, trembling slightly as they twist the fabric between clenched fists, tugging the shirt down. But Bucky's focus is locked onto the bare skin of his neck now on display, right where his bond mark would be if he had one.

“Sorry, didn’t see you there, though, wow, I don’t know how I missed _you._ ”

Steve can’t concentrate on the voice sounding behind him, not when every fiber of his being is wholly focused on the hardness pressing against his thigh. He lifts his hands from the door and wraps them around Bucky’s waist without thought, just needing to keep Bucky slotted against him so perfectly.

“Hi, Darcy.” Bucky’s voice is as breathless as Steve feels.

“Oh, Bucky. I didn’t see you there behind the wall of rippling muscles. Are you going to introduce me to your new _friend?”_

“Uh, yeah, of course. Darcy, this is Steve — ah, Doctor Rogers. He’s new to the building, he’s my, ah, he works over at the ORS Clinic. Steve, this is Darcy Lewis. She lives on your floor, and is the best barista over at _Whole Latte Love_.”

It’s the sound of his name on Bucky’s lips that finally steals Steve’s attention, and he blinks over at the newcomer, trying to get his bearings. With his body screaming its protests, he steps back, sliding his leg from between Bucky’s, though he can’t bring himself to lift his hands. 

Darcy lands with a _thump_ beside Steve. “A doctor? You don’t say.” Steve’s eyes are still fixed on Bucky’s face, but he can sense Darcy leaning in before she sniffs loudly. A moment later a hand lands on his upper arm and squeezes assessingly. “And a strapping alpha one at that, right here in our building.”

His ma raised him better than to snub anyone, especially an omega, but at this moment, that's all Steve wants to do. He wants to ignore Darcy and keep his eyes locked on that sweet, tortured lip being crushed between pearly white teeth... or soothe it with his tongue. He settles for a compromise, keeping his eyes on Bucky while extending one hand toward Darcy, leaving the other where it belongs: attached to Bucky.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Ms. Lewis.”

Two hands engulf his as Darcy shakes his hand much too enthusiastically. “Oh, call me Darcy, please, and the pleasure is _all_ mine. You know, I was thinking about coming into the clinic to talk about options.” Her voice drops to a mock-whisper like she’s sharing a secret she wants everyone to know. “My heat’s due next week, and it’s so hard for an unbonded omega like me to feel satisfied with artificial knotting. Maybe I could pick your brain about _alternatives_.”

The hand on Steve’s arm lifts and gentle tapping inches up his arm, like Darcy is step-walking her nails toward his shoulder, but he ignores it, frowning at the way Bucky’s head drops down, gaze fixing on the ground before his lashes meet, hiding his pretty eyes from view completely.

Confusion churns through Steve. He can typically read omegas like a large-print book, hell, Darcy’s book might as well have pictures she’s so obvious about her intent, but Bucky… Bucky has him stumped. Is being seen together embarrassing him? Is the contact making him uncomfortable? Is Bucky frustrated at being interrupted, too? But, he doesn’t look irritated, he looks… sad. 

“Bucky dear, are you done with Steve here? I’d love to steal him away for a minute or two to get his _professional opinion_.”

Bucky’s head jerks up as his eyes fly open, darting from Darcy to Steve and back again. 

Steve clears his throat. The last thing he intends to do tonight is to be dragged away by an overly-familiar omega. “Actually, I was— “

“Yeah, that’s fine,” Bucky blurts. “He was just making sure I got home safe and... now... I’m home... safe.” 

Steve’s eyebrows pinch together tightly as Bucky twists in his grasp. 

Without missing a beat, Darcy hooks her arm through Steve’s. “Great!”

“Bucky...” Steve hesitates, trying to understand what's just happened, why Bucky is suddenly so eager to leave him with Darcy.

“It’s fine. I’m fine. I’ll see you tomorrow. It’s fine,” Bucky mumbles, slipping from Steve’s hold and stumbling backward into his apartment. 

A soft frown tugging at Bucky’s lips as he stares at Steve’s hand hanging in mid-air between them is the last thing Steve sees before the door swings shut. The soft click reverberates through Steve’s body like a shot as if Bucky had slammed it in his face. Ignoring the sting of rejection, he waits, eyes trained on the door, listening for the telltale sound of a lock sliding home.  
  
Silence rings loud in his ears.

It takes him far too long to notice his arm is still outstretched toward the door, toward Bucky, and Steve hesitates. Should he knock? To remind Bucky to lock himself in… just in case? Is that overstepping? Does it matter if it means Bucky is protected?

“—Steve?”

“Hmm?” Steve does a half-spin toward the summons, his arm dropping to his side as he comes face to face with the brunette staring up at him expectantly. Oh, Darcy, right. 

“I asked if you knew of any _alternatives_ to artificial knotting. It just never satisfies me as a real alpha does. Sometimes, the cravings just get so intense, being knotted is all I can think about.”

Steve can’t hold back the impatient sigh. It’s not fair to blame Darcy, he knows it’s not, but he can’t help but feel if she hadn’t interrupted, things might have gone a little differently. He hadn’t _expected_ to be invited into the apartment, but... if he’s honest with himself, he'd been _hoping._ Not for… untoward reasons — his cheeks heat at the thought. But, given the choice, he’d rather be inside with Bucky, talking about baking instead of out here with Darcy, being eyed like he was one of Bucky’s sugar cookies.

Mindful the omega in front of him is Bucky’s friend, Steve keeps both his choice of words and tone strictly professional, not wanting to encourage the obvious interest. “Artificial knotting was invented for exactly that reason. If administered regularly, the protein should make your heat significantly shorter, and your symptoms much milder, much more bearable.”

“Well, then I must be missing an awful lot of protein because my desires aren’t milder at all after a seeding.” Darcy lifts her free hand and rakes colorful nails over the scent gland behind Steve’s ear, unperturbed when he jerks away from the touch. She stares up at him through her lashes. “How’s a girl go about getting her hands on—” her eyes flick down to Steve’s pants “—a little more protein?”

Steve just barely avoids rolling his eyes at the loaded question, irritation taking a bite out of his patience. He knows most any other alpha would be flattered by the flirtation, but the unwanted attention isn’t something he enjoys, especially when he’s making it as clear as possible he’s not interested.

In his late teens and early adulthood, he'd sat back and watched as eager omegas swarmed his few alpha friends. It was something he’d never had to deal with - alpha though he may be, he’d been a scrawny and sickly one, the runt of every pack, and without the typical look or scent of an alpha, he had been overlooked quickly by omegas, their instincts rejecting him as a provider, protector, and breed-mate. 

All that had changed when he’d hit an unexpected growth spurt in his early twenties, and his height, breadth, and pheromones had all gone wild at once. But having seen the other side, it had made the attention somehow easier to deal with, knowing it wasn’t about _him,_ not really, just biology.

He places his hand on Darcy’s and lifts it away. “If you’re still having severe symptoms during your heat, your protein levels may be low. Not everyone tests them before the procedure, but we do. Call the clinic and make an appointment. I think you’ll find once your levels are where they’re supposed to be, you’ll notice a dramatic improvement.”

“My apartment is just one flight up. I’d love if you could come up and give me more of your, ah, _expertise_?” Moving closer, Darcy takes advantage of having both hands free and rakes her nails down Steve’s chest, the brightly colored tips catching on the soft gray fabric. “I’m sure a big, strong, _virile_ doctor like you would know how to help chase away an omegas aches and pains. You do, don’t you, _alpha?”_

Steve steps back, trying to put distance between himself and Darcy, frowning when the stairwell railing obstructs his retreat. “I’m afraid the only way to eradicate symptoms is with suppressants, but they aren’t without their own risks and side-effects. You’ll need a full blood workup to check for any possible contraindications before starting them. Again, if you call—”

Darcy waves his words away like an irritating bug. “That all sounds like such a hassle, and I mean, we’re here, _now_. You wouldn’t mind helping a poor, heat-struck omega off the books just this once, would you?”

Shaking his head, Steve arches back over the railing as Darcy crowds into his space. “I’m sorry, I don’t have the necessary equipment at home,” he replies tersely. He knows Darcy is a friend of Bucky’s, and the last thing he wants to do is upset her, but his patience is running dry. If she doesn’t take the hint soon, he’ll have no choice.

“Oh, honey. You have all the equipment I need right _here_ ,” Darcy purrs, slotting her hips up against Steve’s.

Sighing in resignation, Steve grips Darcy’s shoulders gently but firmly and forces her back before holding her at arm’s length. She gasps, in surprise or offense, he’s not really sure, but he can’t find it in himself to care much either way. 

“If you really are experiencing complications with your heat, please call the clinic. Our receptionist, Wanda, can help you with any questions you have and can book you in to see Doctor Barton, who can help you with those difficulties.”

Bright red lips push out in a pout. “Doctor Barton? No, _I want you._ ”

“I’m not taking new clients right now.”

“It could be our little secret,” she murmurs, straining against Steve’s hands, tilting her face up and fluttering her lashes. “I would be very, very thorough in my gratuity.”

Steve battles back his desire to snap at the stubbornly aggressive omega in his hands. “Unfortunately, I’m fully booked for the next few months, and you really shouldn’t delay your treatment if your heat is due soon. Prolonged deficiencies can cause all sorts of future health issues like infertility and premature aging.”

Darcy stops straining against the hold on her shoulders, cocks her head to the side and eyes Steve speculatively. “ _Really?_ ”

“Mhm.” Steve waits patiently for the predatory curve of her lips to reset. It takes a little over twenty seconds. Hopeful that she has finally, _finally_ gotten the message, Steve lets his hands lift from her shoulders, hovering over them for a moment, just to be sure. When she doesn’t immediately lunge forward, he lets them drop. “I’ll tell Wanda to expect your call.”

Humming thoughtfully, Darcy lets her eyes drag down Steve’s body boldly, without apology or pretense. She sighs wistfully as her gaze finally returns to his face. “Such a shame.” She shrugs. “If you change your mind and want to make a, uh, _charitable donation,_ I’m in apartment 6D.”

Steve watches, stunned, as she flounces up the stairs. He waits for the sound of a door slamming shut before he peels himself off the railing. Rubbing a hand over the dull ache in his lower back where the metal had been pressing into him, he returns to Bucky’s door.

His hand hangs in mid-air, a breath away from the wood, indecision kicking up clouds of apprehension in his mind. He’d thought after today, after Bucky's reactions that maybe... And then he’d sensed something in that moment, pressed together against the door. And not just _that;_ a physical response can be meaningless, but the shift in the air between them is not so easily dismissed. Bucky had looked up at him with dark eyes and bated breath, and Steve had been sure Bucky was going to kiss him, had _wanted_ Bucky to kiss him. Instead, Bucky had all but pushed him into Darcy’s arms as Bucky had slipped, quite literally, out of his before running away. 

_Oh._ Had he misread the entire situation? Bucky’s reaction at the clinic, during his procedure, could easily be explained away given the circumstances. It’s not like other patients hadn’t called his name before. But, it had felt different with Bucky. ...Because _he_ feels differently about _Bucky_. And he can’t seem to shake it.   
  
He knows it’s too much, too quick, to feel like this. He’s no stranger to lust or having people in his bed, but this feels like something else, something _more._ He’s never before felt the level of intimacy he’d experienced seeing Bucky in his bed; imagining how perfectly Bucky would fit into his life.  
  
Is he just fooling himself? He did just meet Bucky today, after all, and he knows next to nothing about him. But whether folly nor not, Steve can’t help but feel like he’s found a puzzle piece he didn’t know was missing from his life. And now he’s aware of it, he can _feel_ it, aching and empty like someone's carved a Bucky-shaped hole clear through his chest.

But none of that means a damn if Bucky doesn’t feel the same.

Lifting his hand away from the door, Steve scrubs it through his hair, his mental see-saw in full swing. He has a very bad feeling he’s got this all, very, very wrong. He’s Bucky’s doctor. He's responsible for treating him, in a position of power, and an alpha to boot. Presumably, Bucky didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize his treatment, didn’t know how to say he wasn’t interested in his doctor's advances because he shouldn’t _have_ to.  
  
 _Fuck._ Steve spins on his heels, about to flee to his own apartment when he remembers Bucky hadn’t locked his. Bucky’s not safe. Not yet. 

Raising his hand back to the door, Steve shoves his disappointment down and pushes the corners of his lips into a tight smile. He can just tell Bucky about the plans for his appointment in the morning before casually mentioning it's best he locks his door at the end of the conversation. Then, he can drag himself to bed and… well. He can play _either-or_ when he’s wrapped in sugar-scented sheets. It will be a closely-fought battle; the two hours sleep he’d accidentally stolen while Bucky had been on the table had done nothing to smooth the sharp edges off his exhaustion.

Knuckles poised to rap on the wood stall as a soft sound from within reaches his ear; A faint _moaning._

_Oh, for fuck’s sake._

The road to hell is paved with good intentions. That has never been more true than right now. His need to see Bucky safe and protected has his whole body in flames, burning with need. The forceful beat of his heart in his chest is mirrored in his cock, the painful throbbing feeding a rumbling growl deep in his chest.

Is Bucky jerking off? Is his hand wrapped around his drooling cock? Or is he fucking his dripping ass? With his fingers? With the plug Steve had inserted at the clinic? No, his little hole would be much too sensitive after today.

Steve chokes on a groan and slides down against the door frame, landing hard on his ass before pulling his knees up. It does nothing to ease the painful pressure building in his pants, but he steadfastly ignores it and drops his head to his legs, folding his arms over his head, pressing them against his ears, trying to dampen the torturous sounds of pleasure mocking him from inside the apartment. 

It doesn’t do anything to stop his mind from filling in the visual blanks; of Bucky wet and writhing on his bed, touching himself, making himself feel so good. Is he thinking of today, too? Remembering Steve’s fingers fucking into him?

Dizziness sweeps through Steve, but whether it’s borne of exhaustion or denied desire is anyone’s guess. He sighs and squeezes his eyes closed more tightly. His twin temptations lie in Bucky’s bedroom and his own, but he can’t have either of them. He can’t leave Bucky defenseless, especially not now he’s… preoccupied. And he's sure as hell not interrupting.

Steve curses under his breath. Today had resisted his best-laid plans, why should tonight be any different? 

The sounds of pleasure grow in volume and frequency, and Steve grits his teeth. The added protein pumping through Bucky’s veins has done little to subdue his scent. And now, drifting under the door, seeping around the hinges, and, _fuck_ , Steve would swear it’s _bleeding through the walls,_ the sweet scent of arousal, along with the salty tang of sweat and come fill Steve’s lungs and he can’t stop the whine sliding through his parted lips. 

Tonight is going to be a very, very long night.

. . .

Steve’s head snaps up, the scent reaching his nose before the alpha even comes into view. He unfolds his body from the floor in one smooth, swift movement, planting his feet shoulder-width apart, blocking Bucky’s door completely.

The heavy thud of boots ascending the stairs makes him tense, each footfall echoing up the stairwell ratcheting his muscles tighter. By the time the alpha appears, dressed head to toe in black, matching the greasy hair and dark eyes, Steve’s body is stretched to his limits, a straining spring ready to snap. 

The alpha pauses on the landing, eyes narrowing as they find Steve. His nostrils flare as he draws in a deep breath, his gaze never leaving Steve’s.

“ _Fuck._ Knew you were an alpha from the look of ya, but you sure as hell don’t smell like one. What’s with all the odor-blocking bullshit? Such a waste, man. Gotta let that shit out. The scent does all the heavy lifting, y’ know. Gets those cunts nice and wet, so all you gotta do is slide right in.” The alpha chuckles as he takes two steps closer, then slaps Steve on the shoulder. “That bit of advice is free, but the rest will cost ya.”

Steve doesn’t realize his hands are curled into fists until the alpha lifts one of his own and holds it open, waiting. 

“Name’s Rumlow, but my friends call me Bones.”

Steve’s eyes dip to the hand, but he doesn’t unfurl his own to shake it. He has no interest in being an acquaintance with the asshole in front of him. “I don’t know why you’re here, but I think it’s best you leave.”

Bristling at the slight, Rumlow sneers. “Don’t know why I’m here? I’m here for the same reason you are. Here for that sweet little cunt. Could smell it the minute I left the last little bitch’s apartment a floor down. Shit, you must be going out of your mind out here. You know when it’s that strong, the bitch is gonna be gaggin' for it.”

Disgust flows through Steve with an adrenaline chaser, but he’s pretty sure the trembling in his fists is down to his willpower waning, his hands itching to connect with the bastard’s face — again and again and _again_ until his knuckles are bruised and bloody. “You can leave by free will or by force, but you aren’t staying. There’s nothing for you here.”

“Hey, c’mon, pal. Don’t be greedy. I get it; you got here first, I respect that. You take your turn, I’ll wait. I don’t mind sloppy seconds.”

The growl bursts free from Steve’s chest without warning and Rumlow takes a step back instinctively just as Steve advances, angling his shoulder down, ready to drive forward and forcibly remove the threat to Bucky. “The only way through that door is through _me.”_

The two men face off for a long moment, neither willing to concede their position. But the silence tightens, stretches, and finally Rumlow sets his shoulders and reclaims his lost space, all cocksure alpha bravado on display, unable to back down from the challenge. 

He leers at Steve. “Ahh, I get it. You’re the good little guard dog, is that it? What’s the matter, couldn’t satisfy your little bitch, so you got kicked out? Now, you’re out here trying to stop a real alpha from taking that sweet cunt, from satisfying it like you couldn’t.” He laughs and closes in, claiming the last step of space between them, leaning close to Steve’s face, edging up on his toes so he doesn’t have to tilt his own to match it. “Yeah, that’s it, isn’t it? You’re out here like a pathetic little bitch, probably getting yourself off to that sweet scent. Well, I’ll tell ya what. You step aside, let me in, and I’ll take care of your problem. I’ll give your bitch a nice, fat knot, and then, maybe if you’re lucky, I’ll give you one when I’m done.”

Each sharp word slices into the fraying threads of Steve’s restraint, and when Rumlow shoves him, catching him in the sternum with a shoulder as he reaches out toward the doorknob, Steve’s control snaps entirely, and the world turns red. 

Steve seizes the alpha’s wrist roughly, jerking it away from the doorknob before twisting and snapping it up behind Rumlow’s back. A well-aimed elbow to the bastard's spine makes him stumble and pitch forward, falling toward Bucky’s closed door, and Steve grabs a fist full of short, dark hair and drives Rumlow’s head forward, smashing his face into the unforgiving surface, ignoring the yelp of pain. 

Steve crowds up against the alpha, shoving him harder against the door as he presses his lips to a red-tipped ear, wanting him to feel every word. “You really think that taking what you want makes you an _alpha_? You’re a fucking idiot. It doesn’t even make you a _man._ A _real_ alpha _earns_ an omega, is _chosen._ An omega is a gift, not a right. The fact that you have to take what you want because no one will give it willingly is proof that the only _pathetic little bitch_ here is _you._ ” 

Steve gives a sharp tug on the short strands before releasing them, reaching down to grab Rumlow’s half-formed knot with firm fingers, perverse satisfaction flooding through him at the high-pitched whine that tears from Rumlow’s throat as he struggles against the hold, his free hand clawing at Steve's. 

“If I _ever_ see you around this building again, or catch you even looking the wrong way at an omega, _any omega_ , I will make sure you can never take anything that doesn’t belong to you,” Steve snarls, digging his unrelenting fingers deeper into the sensitive flesh, squeezing hard enough that Rumlow’s legs shake and he throws his free arm out to steady himself against the doorframe “Do you understand what I’m telling you?” He growls lowly.

Rumlow nods jerkily, whimpering as Steve’s hand twists roughly.

“Say it.”

“I u-understand,” Rumlow gasps.

“Good.” Steve’s hand is aching, but he gives one final, agonizing squeeze before he releases his hold. 

Rumlow spins on the spot, stopping only when his back collides with the door. Cupping himself protectively, he circles away from Steve warily, unwilling to turn his back.

Steve can sense the alpha’s desperate desire to snap back, growl, or fight; _something_ to reclaim his loss of dignity. But fear or self-preservation wins out, and he backs away to the edge of the landing. He stumbles at the top of the stairs, his foot slipping down the first step, and he flings his arm out, catching the railing, narrowly stopping himself from tumbling backward, head-over-ass. Wide eyes dart over his shoulder to the stairwell, and after only a beat of hesitation, Rumlow turns and flees, metaphorical tail hanging low between shaky legs.

Steve waits until the rapid pounding of boots disappears from the stairwell, along with the alpha’s rancid scent, before he allows himself to slide down Bucky’s door once more. When his ass hits the floor, he pulls his knees up, folds his trembling arms over them, and drops his head down, adrenaline still racing through his veins.

He’d been hesitant at first, to plant himself outside of Bucky’s door. It had felt inappropriate, intrusive, especially without Bucky’s knowledge or consent. But he’d been right. If he hadn’t been here… A flash of fear bolts through him. _If he hadn’t…_

Steve pulls in a calming breath. His heart starts to slow, and the pounding in his ears softens. It’s okay, he _had_ been here, he _is_ here, and Bucky is fine. Bucky is…oh, god.  
  
 _Not again._

In the ringing silence, the soft moans drift through the walls at the same time the scent of fresh desire, of slick and precome, reaches his nose. Steve lifts his head from his arms and lets it thump back against the door. 

Bucky is _definitely_ more vocal outside the clinic.

Steve gnaws on his lip, pressing his teeth into it so deeply he half-expects it to split and spill blood down his chin at any second. How the fuck is Bucky even still awake? Or hard? Or not coming dry in his fist? This is the _fifth_ time Bucky’s come tonight... not that Steve’s counting. He _is_ envious as hell, though—God, what he wouldn’t give for a little relief. 

Stretching his legs out until they’re butting up against the other side of the door frame —a human barricade— he allows his eyelids to fall closed. Maybe he should just jerk off here. Strangle his cock, milk his knot until Bucky’s door is covered in his come, in his _scent._ Would that be enough to keep other alphas away?

He smiles sleepily at the thought as the insistent fingers of exhaustion creep over him, taking hold, pulling him down. He jerks his head up, fighting with heavy lids as he scans his deserted surroundings. He has to stay awake, has to resist the lure. He _has to._ But his mind is sluggish, and his eyelids leaden, and Bucky’s soft sounds of pleasure are the last thing he hears, a lustful lullaby as he surrenders to the darkness.


	6. A Detailed History

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I give thee words! They're late. I know. I got distracted by side quests. Have an apology cheesecake. 🍰
> 
> ii. Lemme know your thoughts, feelings, express yourself entirely in emojis if you want, yadda yadda, blah blah, you know the drill!

“Steve?”

Steve jerks awake, jolting forward before collapsing back against the door frame, hitting his head. “Fuck.” He rubs the back of his head with one hand and rubs the sleep out of his eyes with the other. _Sleep._ Ah, shit. He’d fallen asleep. Again. His gaze flicks to the door. The fact that it’s still closed tempers his anxiety. Closing his eyes, he strains to hear inside Bucky’s apartment. Muted banging and the scent of food filters through his ears and nose, and Steve reopens his eyes, sighing in relief. Bucky is awake; he’s okay. Finally, Steve turns his attention to the man towering above him. “Hey, Clint. What are you doing here?’

Clint stares down at him incredulously. “I was on my way to your apartment to see you. Y’know, your apartment? Where you should be. What the hell are you doing _here_? And where the hell _is_ here, anyway?”

Shifting his legs from the awkward position they’ve been in since he sat down—and how long ago was that anyway? It had to be at least three or four hours—Steve winces as the sharp point of his apartment key digs into his thigh. The wince blooms into a full-blown grimace as the muscles in his legs protest painfully at his blood’s valiant effort to reach his feet. “Ow, shit.” He flexes a calf experimentally. “I, ah—it’s um, a long story.”

“I have time.”

 _Time_. Panic rushes through him, chasing away the lingering remnants of sleep. “What time is it?” Steve groans as he stretches out the other leg quickly. 

“A little after seven.”

Leveraging his weight against the doorframe, Steve unfolds himself from the floor. “Shit! I have to get ready for work. I need to have a shower and—” Steve dips his head down, sniffing toward his pits. His natural scent fills his nose, and his eyes dart to Bucky’s door immediately. His blockers must have worn off during the night, and now, as soon as Bucky steps out of his apartment, he’s going to be engulfed in alpha scent. Steve's cock, never quite far from filled in the past twenty-four hours, instantly twitches at the thought, imagining Bucky’s reaction. He scrubs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath—a raging hard-on is the absolute last thing he needs right now.

He takes a stiff step forward, but Clint clamps a hand on his shoulder. “Hey, no. You’re not getting off that easily. Yeah, you reek, but you have two hours before your first patient, you can spare five minutes to tell me what the hell is going on, and why the fuck Wanda is texting me about dead bodies in the clinic.”

“Oh for—” Steve huffs. Clint can be dogged when he wants to be, and Steve can tell by the tone of his friend’s voice, he isn’t going to let this go. Steve shifts on his feet, weighing up the best course of action. His first patient _isn’t_ at nine, his first patient is inside the apartment not three feet away, and he needs to get Bucky to the clinic and get his procedures started before his first _official_ patient shows up. But he doesn’t have time to explain everything to Clint, not now, at least. Deciding the best defense is a good offense, Steve wraps his arm around Clint’s back and guides him toward the stairs leading up to his own apartment. “Ignore Wanda; she’s just angling for a day off. I swear to you, if there was a dead body in the clinic, you would be my first call.”

“Hmm.” Clint eyes him speculatively.

“But that’s not why you’re here. You don’t even believe Wanda when she tells you we’re running low on coffee.”

“She has an untrustworthy face,” Clint shrugs. “No, I know you didn’t kill anyone, but you’re normally on top of everything. Like, _scarily_ on top of everything. It almost makes me feel bad. _Almost_ ,” he smiles before sobering. “So, for Wanda to think something’s off… Look, you know if there’s a problem, whether a scheduling issue or a dead body, you can count on me to take a patient or hide the corpse, right? It was kinda shitty timing to skip out yesterday with my day off today, so if you need me, consider me available.”

The earnestness of Clint’s voice touches Steve. He knows he can count on his best friend. Clint is the most reliable unreliable person he’s ever met. But he doesn’t need a heart to heart right now; he needs to send Clint on his way and hightail it to his own apartment before Bucky comes out of his. 

Steve snorts, raking his gaze deliberately down the purple athletic wear encasing Clint’s body. The outfit is so new it still smells like a department store. He half-expects a still-attached price tag to dangle into view at any moment. “Would that availability have anything to do with the get up you’re in? Trying to get out of something, Barton?”

“Pfft, what? Steve, I’m appalled,” Clint blusters in a mock-offended tone. “We’re doctors! We need to stay healthy, need to set a good example for our patients, and—”

Steve smirks and raises an eyebrow. 

“—and… well, P was swooning over some big, blond alpha stomping up the stairs yesterday. Shoulders bigger even than yours, thighs that would crush a watermelon in record time, and he didn’t even have the decency to put a shirt on to cover his sixteen-pack.”

Steve can’t stop the bubble of laughter escaping his lips. “Uh-huh. So, you figure you’ll go for a jog this morning, instantly transform into some kind of almost-golden god, and be able to recapture your man’s interest? Good luck with that.” 

Clint sags, all wind gone from his sails as quickly and effectively as if Steve had sucked them into a space saver bag. “I know it’s completely unrealistic, but I mean, it can’t hurt, right? I should get _some_ points for trying. And hey, when I come back all sweaty, smelling of A-grade alpha musk, I fully plan to cash them in.”

“ _Ahh_. I take it Pietro’s feeling better?” Steve grins. 

“Yeah, he had a fever yesterday afternoon—and P swears that’s why he went soft over the hard himbo in the stairwell—but it broke during the night. He’s doing a lot better this morning, got his appetite back for food… and other things.” Clint winks.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Steve chuckles as he takes a backward step up. “Enjoy your run and your day off. I don’t need you to come in, but if that changes, I’ll call you.”

“Steve, _damn it!_ ” Clint shakes his head. “Fuck. You did it again. You always worm your way out of questions. Not this time, pal.” He looks pointedly to Bucky’s door. “What’s going on? If something’s scrambled in that small brain of yours, I need to know.”

Steve takes another step backward, edging closer to his apartment and further away from Clint’s scrutiny. “I can’t right now—” he holds up a hand as Clint opens his mouth “—I really _am_ running late. But I’m, ah, I’m coming back for — well, I’ll be back about lunchtime. I’ll stop by your place and fill you in, deal?”

Clint’s eyes narrow, seemingly weighing up the compromise.

“Or, if you have other plans, we can leave it till—”

“No. Alright, you’re on, Rogers. But I’m serious. Don’t make me chase you down.”

Steve blows out a shaky breath as a wave of relief washes through him, grateful he has at least a little time to plan exactly how the hell he’s going to explain any of this to Clint. “I’ll be there, I promise. Though I gotta say, that’s not much of a threat. I’m pretty sure I could outrun you even if you had a head start.” 

“Oh, that’s how you wanna play it? I wouldn’t be so sure, big boy. You may have—” Clint gestures in a vague circle that encompasses Steve’s whole body “—all that going on, but I’m light on my feet, spry, like a bunny on hot coals.”

“Wow. Now there’s an image that’s gonna stick. Remind me to ask Pietro, _again_ , why the hell he bonded with you.”

Clint throws up his middle finger before turning away, heading down the stairs. “Lunchtime, don’t forget!” he calls over his shoulder. 

Steve smiles as he turns himself, and starts up the rest of the stairs. He doesn’t even try to suppress the groan as his heavy body objects to every step. He must have slept for two or three hours at least, but it might as well have been two or three minutes for how shit he feels. 

Reaching the landing feels like an enormous victory, and he rewards himself with a brief moment of still contemplation. Knowing what lies ahead today, he’d been hoping to be well rested or well-spent, and he had managed neither. 

The small whimper is loud in the empty stairwell, drifting up to him on familiar, sugar-scented air. Steve spins on the spot, eyes finding the source immediately. “Bucky?”

At the bottom of the stairs, Bucky’s eyes are wide, his lips parted in a small, perfect ‘o’. A visible tremor shakes through his entire body, and he grabs for the railing as his legs stutter under him. 

Steve’s own legs move without conscious thought, his protective instincts once again surging to the surface, urging him forward, but he steels himself against it, pulling back, planting himself at the top of the stairs. Bucky is obviously reacting to the strong alpha scent Steve had inadvertently rubbed all over the door, triggering Bucky’s heat-heightened desires. If Steve descends the stairs now, and Bucky follows those impulses, after the night Steve’s had, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from doing something exceedingly stupid if he has Bucky in his arms again. 

“Is everything okay?”

“I, uh — I’m fine. I was just, uh, I thought I’d bring you breakfast, for um, you know, to say thank you for… yesterday." Bucky stammers. “I didn’t know you were, ah…busy.”

“Yeah, I, ah, was just about to have a sh—” Steve breaks off as Bucky’s words register in his tired brain, and he notices the white knuckles gripping a blue plate—topped with pancakes—for the first time. “ _You made me breakfast?_ ”

Bucky’s cheeks fill with color. “Oh, yeah, it’s just pancakes. I didn’t know if you’d eaten, but... I made extra... thought you might like them.” 

“Wow,” Steve murmurs, his gaze lifting from the pancakes and fixing on Bucky. It takes a moment to push the words past the lump in his throat. “Thank you.” He waves Bucky up. “Come in.” He pauses, realizing sitting next to Bucky smelling as he does probably isn’t the best idea. “I just need to jump in the shower first. Will they keep?”

Bucky’s eyes edge wider as he nods. “Uh-huh.” His hand still grips the railing, riding it up as he climbs the stairs.

“Great!” The word bursts from Steve’s mouth like the sun suddenly appearing—much too bright for the hour—but he can’t help it. The sight of Bucky coming to him is flooding him with endorphins, and his tired body is too depleted to manage them responsibly. He tries to temper the inordinate reaction with professionalism… because that had worked so well for him before. “I thought I could take you into the clinic with me to save you retaking the subway.” He frowns at the thought of Bucky taking public transport again, but he doesn’t want to seem presumptuous. “That is if you don’t have other plans for this morning.” 

If Bucky decides to decline his offer, well, he’ll just have to take the subway to work, too. Steve’s eyes drift over the tendrils of hair curling down around that beautiful face before slipping lower, taking in the tight, layered t-shirts wrapped around Bucky’s perfect body, resting atop a pair of jeans that should be illegal. No, there’s no way Steve can in good conscience let Bucky travel alone looking like sex, smelling like sugared sin. 

Not after last night. 

The loose strands of hair dance as Bucky shakes his head. He pauses on the step below the landing.

Steve fervently hopes Bucky doesn’t notice the tremble in his hand as he fishes his key out of his pocket, or the way it takes two tries to get it into the lock. He pushes the door open and moves aside, motioning Bucky into his apartment. 

Bucky pauses inside the door before striding to the breakfast bar while Steve hovers in the doorway, watching him, trying not to focus on how perfect Bucky looks inside his home. He can imagine Bucky dressed in nothing but one of his own t-shirts, dancing around the kitchen making breakfast, or curled up on the overstuffed sofa, or… The clanking of the ceramic plate meeting the countertop breaks Steve from his reverie, and he steps inside, pulling the door closed behind him. 

“Make yourself at home. I’ll just be a minute.”

It takes every ounce of his strength to walk away from Bucky when every fiber of his being is screaming at him to move closer. His feet drag as the distance increases, moving to the linen closet to grab a fresh towel, and it’s only the knowledge that going to Bucky now will distress him, that has Steve pushing forward into the bathroom. 

He leans back against the closed door, allowing himself one minute to search for some thread of self-control. He knows it’s the lack of sleep making everything worse, making it feel so much more intense than it probably is, but he’s not so sure that even well-rested, he’d be immune to the connection he feels to Bucky—or to the desire. He’s never felt like this before and has no idea how to deal with it. Trying to ignore it hasn’t worked, but he can’t act on it—not yet, at least. It’s a strange form of yearning agony, one that is both soothed and worsened by Bucky’s closeness.

He squares his shoulders and forces himself away from the door with a quiet groan. His minute is up—if he hasn’t found what he’s looking for by now he’s never going to, but he can’t spend the day hiding in the bathroom. 

Armed with a concrete set of objectives, he moves on autopilot—setting the faucets to his preferred just-this-side-of-blistering water temperature, disrobing, and placing his dirty clothes in the hamper.  
  
The air around him fogs with steam, rising and swirling on invisible currents, not unlike the storm of thoughts and memories whorling in his mind. Somehow, in less than twenty-four hours, Bucky has turned his world, his mind, and his heart upside down.

Stepping into the shower, the scalding water makes him sigh, and he turns away from the spray, pressing a forearm against the glass screen and resting his head against it. Closing his eyes, he lets the pressure and heat work on the aching muscles of his back, humming appreciatively as some of the tension melts away under the unrelenting downpour. 

Blindly, he stretches his right arm out, fingers grappling across the small built-in shelf until he finds the bar of soap. It slides against his hand, almost slipping from his grasp before he closes his fist around it, and brings it to his chest. The scent of what the soap packet declares as ‘fresh linen’ dances on the steam as the bar foams and bubbles across his skin. To him, it’s just an unobtrusive, clean scent—nothing overpowering that’ll fight the peppermint he’ll use later. 

Finally pushing off the glass, Steve rubs the bar over his body, taking special care over his scent glands on his neck, under his arms, his wrists, and his groin. His cock, already half-hard, thickens under the attention, straining up, the head flushing angrily. Bubbles spring from between his fingers as he rubs the bar over his swollen knot, and he hisses at the sparks of pleasure chasing every movement. 

His throaty groan echoes off the tiles, and he bites his lip, silently cursing himself. Sounds carry easily in these apartments, and Bucky hearing him is one mortification too far—he’d never be able to look Bucky in the eyes again.

Still...

 _Well-rested or well-spent._ The first isn’t an option, and he’d intended on taking advantage of his shower to at least try for the second, but that had been _before_ he’d known Bucky would be in his apartment at the time.

A small, traitorous voice in his head reminds him of the mess he’d made—of the situation and of himself—while in the same room as Bucky yesterday. Isn’t it better to prepare himself now, for later? Maybe if he can empty himself here, he won’t lose control at the clinic. 

It’s a short straw of reason, but his brain grabs it eagerly, and he moves to the corner of the shower, away from the spray, and leans his weight against the glass. 

Steve soaps his hands up before placing the bar back onto the shelf. The soap is probably overkill; precome spilling out of his slit in a near-constant stream, his cock impatient and more than ready to finally empty. But wrapping his fingers around himself, squeezing and sliding, the lather on his skin feels different, and he closes his eyes, imagining he’s rubbing himself with Bucky’s slick, rubbing it into his skin, coating himself in _Bucky._

His hips stutter forward at the thought, forcing his cock through his slippery fist until it’s pressing into his aching knot. Tightening his grip, he rubs and twists over the head, catching the sensitive ridge over and over as his free hand starts massaging his knot. His senses kick into overdrive, assaulting him with the phantom scents and sounds of Bucky from last night; the gasps and groans and whimpers as he chased the peak of pleasure, and the salty-sweet scent when he found it.

Clamping his lips together to keep his desperate moans trapped, he breathes harshly through his nose, the hot air stinging as it races down his throat and into his heaving lungs.

His knot fills, fit to bursting, throbbing, the pressure building, _building_ , so fucking full it’s almost unbearable. His mind fills with filthy images - of Bucky’s tight little hole clenching around him, sucking greedily at his cock just like it had his fingers. 

The gasp of Bucky’s name is swallowed up by the steam as Steve’s legs convulse, his whole body drawing taut as his orgasm slams into him. His cock jerks in his hand, spitting out pulse after pulse of come, thick white ropes landing on his face, chest, belly, and coating the shower walls. 

Fireworks light up his closed lids as he strangles his knot with both hands, prolonging his pleasure, needing to drain it completely. It’s too much stimulation, too hard, trying to empty much too fast, but he works himself with quivering hands, forcing his seed from his cock, gritting his teeth against the too-sharp pleasure now spiking into pain. Dragging his eyes open, he watches as the endless streams plash on his skin, warm and wet, as he empties himself, wrenching every last drop from his aching, spent cock until his knot finally subsides. The last squeeze has him jerking dryly, with nothing left to give. 

Steve slides across the tiles, legs trembling alarmingly, and he throws out both hands against the walls, pinning himself in place until he steadies. The water streams over his body, washing away the mix of soap and seed clinging to him until the milky mess of swirling water at his feet finally runs clear.

There’s a constant, dull ache in his deflated knot, a silent reprimand for using force, but he ignores it. For the first time in too long, his dick is soft and spent, hanging limply between his thighs, and the lack of throbbing pressure feels amazing. He should feel guilty for thinking of Bucky, but he can only bring himself to feel grateful; it would have taken much longer without the memories from yesterday.

Whatever it is about Bucky that has taken hold of him, it’s hooked in so deep, that Steve isn’t sure that it’s ever going to let him go. But more concerningly, he’s not sure he wants it to. 

He eyes the shampoo bottle propped on the shelf beside the soap but reaches for the faucets instead. He’s completely lost track of time; he could have been in here for six minutes or sixty. 

Carefully, mindful of the slippery tiles, Steve makes his way out of the glass cubicle on still-shaky legs, cursing the tremors speeding through his body. He needs to sit down, no, needs to _lie_ down, preferably for a solid sixteen hours. The usual post-orgasm fatigue creeps through his body, and he suddenly questions the intelligence of his decision. He knows his judgment has been compromised lately, but whether this has been his worst best idea or his best worst idea, it’s done now.

He dries himself quickly, soaking the water from his body, then grabs the roll-on scent blocker from his medicine cabinet. The sharp scent of peppermint floods the air before mellowing as it binds to the pheromones pushing through his skin. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he triple-checks it’s secure before he opens the door and makes a beeline for his bedroom. 

Clothes are plucked from his wardrobe hastily—black briefs and loose slacks, _just in case_ , and a standard blue button-up. The socks he pulls from his draw are light gray, but he refuses to examine his color choice too closely; he just likes the color. 

Steve dresses in record time before returning the towel to the bathroom—brushing his teeth and hair while he’s in there—trying to ignore the anxiety making a mess of his belly. He feels jittery, like he’s had too much coffee, and he forces a calming breath. If he doesn’t get his shit together, Bucky is going to take one look at him and know exactly where his mind—and hand—had been during his shower. 

Thankful the warming of his skin can be blamed on too-hot water, Steve steels his nerves and marches back out to Bucky, but panic seizes him, stalling his motions not two feet clear into the room.

Bucky is standing at the easel set up in the corner, staring at Steve’s current project—a painting of Bucky. But the tension in Steve's body eases as he realizes Bucky hasn’t recognized the subject of the work, and he pads across the room, quietly, watching as Bucky reaches out a finger to touch his own face—or, Steve’s woefully poor rendition of it, at least. 

Close enough now to smell the sweet, raspberry scent of Bucky’s shampoo, Steve murmurs, “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” 

Caught unaware, Bucky startles, jumping backward, colliding with Steve’s chest before he stumbles forward again, spinning as he does. “I—sorry! I didn’t touch it!”

Unable to stop the laugh rumbling from his chest, Steve shakes his head. “It’s fine, it’s just still wet. I didn’t want you to get the oils on you. Any marks you would have made could only serve to make it look better. I can’t quite capture... Well.”

He runs a hand through his hair, the still-damp strands slipping through his fingers. He hasn’t been able to capture Bucky’s beauty on the canvas, and staring down at the man in question now, Steve’s certain he’ll never be able to do that fascinating face justice. But he can’t exactly admit that to Bucky. He’s pretty sure painting your neighbor without their knowledge or consent just because you can’t stop thinking about them is bordering on creepy. Stalkerish, even. 

Bucky twists back to the painting, rejecting Steve’s words with a strong shake of his head. “Would have ruined it, you mean. This is incredible,” Bucky declares sincerely. He stares at it for another long moment in silence before finally turning back to Steve.

Heat creeps into Steve’s cheeks, but he can’t fight back the small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Bucky likes his painting. Feeling suddenly bashful, Steve can't hold Bucky's gaze, letting his dip and slide toward the kitchen. “No, what’s incredible is the smell of those pancakes.” 

He walks to the kitchen to grab the appropriate cutlery needed to devour Bucky’s offering without making a mess or bad impression. What he really wants is to just lift and fold the golden discs and shove them into his mouth, but with his luck, he’ll end up with syrup soaking his shirt and smeared across his face. The thought takes its natural progression, stirring up images of Bucky licking the sticky mess off his skin before removing his shirt and… Steve’s cock twitches with interest. He pulls the cutlery drawer open with a little more force than intended, wincing at the loud jangle within. He takes a knife and fork before closing the drawer, and makes his way back to the stools by the countertop. “Did you make them yourself?”

“Uh-huh,” Bucky calls, thankfully paying him no mind, once again captivated by the painting. “Is all the art in here yours?”

Steve stops by the stool, wholly distracted by the way Bucky is staring, mesmerized by the vision of himself without knowing it. Steve might as well burn the canvas now; there’s no way he can ever hope to capture the essence of Bucky, nor the feeling he evokes. However, he’d give almost anything to be able to capture this moment, the awe lighting up Bucky’s face as he stares at the brushstrokes, like he’s seeing color for the first time. 

Would Bucky still be so taken with it if he knew it was a portrait of himself? Steve chuckles at the thought, then shrugs self-consciously when Bucky spins toward him. “Yeah. That’s pretty pretentious, I guess.” He’d only hung the paintings up because he’d had nowhere else to put them. He’d never given any away, and he didn’t have the heart to throw them out. Maybe one day, he’d gather the courage to gift one to a friend. More likely, he’ll just put up more hooks. Steve lowers himself to the stool and slices into the pancakes. “Do you want some?”

Bucky gapes at him. “Art?” 

Amusement bursts over Steve’s face as he lifts a wedge of pancake speared on his fork. “Breakfast.”

“Oh.” Bucky’s cheeks pinken prettily. “No, thanks.” His lips dip down in a frown, staring into space before blinking rapidly and shaking his head. “And it’s not pretentious. If I had your talent, I wouldn’t even bother with a canvas, I’d paint murals over every available surface of the apartment.” 

It’s Steve’s turn to flush. He pushes the fork into his mouth as Bucky approaches to avoid having to accept the compliment. Sweetness dances over his tongue, lighting up his taste buds like fireworks, and he can’t stop the deep moan rumbling in the back of his throat as his lashes flutter closed. 

The pancakes are _incredible_ —light, fluffy, and the sweetest, most delicious thing he’s ever had in his mouth. The fried batter yields quickly under his teeth and dissolves on his tongue before he swipes it over his sticky lips. The golden syrup coats his mouth, rich and unctuous. He drags in a deep breath through his nose, not bothering to swallow down the second moan that rides the slow exhale. 

Jesus. And here he thought Bucky was perfect _before._

He can feel an errant drip of syrup rolling down his chin, and he collects it with a finger before pressing it into his mouth, laving the sweetness from it, not willing to forfeit a single drop. 

Bucky’s gaze is prickling his skin, and he opens his eyes to find Bucky’s locked on the finger two knuckles deep in his mouth. He slides it free, the embarrassment at being caught out so uninhibited makes the back of his neck warm uncomfortably. He smiles sheepishly. “I was right; _incredible_. I can’t believe you made these.”

“I - um…” Bucky makes a strange, strangled noise in his throat before coughing. His knee knocks into Steve’s before jerking away in the opposite direction awkwardly. “I’m guessing you don’t usually make yourself pancakes, probably a protein bar for breakfast kind of guy.” Bucky’s voice comes out in a high-pitched rush.

The heat from the brief touch is like a flare in Steve’s brain, and he yearns to spread his thighs on the stool, to press his leg back against Bucky’s. Would he jerk away again, or would he lean into the touch? Steve forces a small laugh around the new mouthful of food, but the rough swallow that follows is more about the delicious treat sitting beside him than the ones resting on his plate. 

“Am I that obvious? To be fair, it’s usually for convenience more than anything else. They’re easy to grab on the way out the door after I sleep in.” He shoves another bite into his mouth and grinds it down, focusing on the delectable delights in his mouth rather than the ones in his mind—of Bucky in his bed, sleeping late together because they hadn’t gotten any the night before. Another rough swallow clears his mouth but not his mind. He winks at Bucky, aiming for levity, desperately trying to stop his face from betraying his thoughts. “Though, if I could make pancakes as good as these, I’m not sure I’d eat anything else.” 

A flash of gold on the silver of his knife catches his eye, and he flicks his tongue out to collect the dollop of syrup. The honeyed taste is exquisite, but he would bet his life Bucky’s slick is even sweeter. The moan slides from his throat at the thought before he can stop it. He shifts on the stool, eyes darting to Bucky, searching for a sign of awareness, but finds a strange look he can’t quite put a name to instead. 

He wants to ask Bucky what he’s thinking, wants to ask him—hell, _everything._ Wants to know all his thoughts and fears and dreams and desires. Wants to spend the whole day doing nothing but learning about the man finally perched beside him, close enough to reach out and touch. 

_Touch._ Something clicks in the back of Steve’s mind, and he looks up at the clock on the wall. His heart sinks as the fantasy drifts out of reach. “Oh, we should head out soon, traffic can be a bit of a problem at this hour.”

Bucky reaches a hand toward the plate. “You don’t have to finish them if you—”

Warmth returns to Steve’s chest as he moves the plate away, out of Bucky’s reach, before cutting a golden disc in half and folding it over itself. He eyes the double triangle, estimating the odds of fitting in his mouth. “Oh, just try and stop me. I’ve never had anyone make me breakfast before. Well, not since I was a kid, anyway, so I’m not giving these up without a fight.” He laughs softly, lifts the fork toward his mouth, but pauses, the truth in his words hitting him. He _hasn’t_ had anyone other than his ma make him breakfast—not a friend, not his ex, certainly not a patient. It’s such a thoughtful, kind gesture that Steve’s throat tightens. “ _Thank you,_ Bucky. You didn’t have to do this, but… I’m touched that you did.”

Beside him, Bucky just nods, a small smile playing on his lips as Steve stretches his around the load on his fork. 

They sit in companionable silence as Steve finishes his breakfast; Steve watching Bucky watch him.

By the time Steve’s taking his dish to the sink and rinsing it and his hands, uncertainty is filling the small space in his belly left by the pancakes. It’s a vague, hazy feeling, and trying to find the source is like trying to catch fog, so he ignores it, plastering a smile on his lips as he turns back to Bucky. “Do you need to grab anything from your apartment before we leave?”

Bucky shakes his head as he slides off his stool. “Nope, everything I need is right here.” He gestures to himself with an exaggerated flourish. 

_And everything I need, too._ Steve clenches his jaw, desperately aware of how close he’d come to verbalizing the thought, and fuck, wouldn’t that be perfect? Cupping Bucky’s elbow gently, Steve guides him to the front door.  
  
The quiet click of the lock sounds behind them—a bright snap of fantasy being left behind as they step back into reality.

Bucky is quiet on the too-short yet too-long walk to the garage and slides into the passenger seat without a word.  
  
The chest-swelling pride Steve feels at having Bucky walk beside him slowly crumbles under the weight of his growing confusion, and by the time he’s closing the passenger-side door, securing Bucky inside, his head is spinning. Steve takes his time rounding the car to the driver’s side, trying to put thoughts to the feelings churning inside him. But it’s only when he’s finally pulling out of the garage, merging into the busy morning traffic, that he finally puts a finger on what’s been bothering him—the pancakes. 

_Why_ had Bucky brought him breakfast? Was this Bucky following up on Steve’s comment about giving him some sugar? But Bucky hadn’t asked him about scent blockers or mentioned any kind of trade. Did Bucky think he _had_ to? That he _owed_ Steve something after yesterday? The thought makes the food in his belly turn heavy and sour. 

But you don’t just bring someone you hardly know breakfast… do you? Steve knows Bucky is a good man. He’d seen him help their elderly neighbor carry her groceries up many flights of stairs without prompting, had seen him handing out cookies to the pups tearing around the building while others were shouting at them to be quiet—for no other reason than he’s just that kind of person... a kind person with a generous heart.

That’s all this morning must have been—no ulterior motives, no compulsions—just Bucky being Bucky.

Steve ignores the longing compressing his chest as he glances at Bucky; staring out the window, watching the world blur by with an angry-looking crease between his brows.

“Are you okay over there?”

Bucky startles but doesn’t turn away from the window. “I’m fine. Just thinking.”

“About today?” Steve tries to keep his voice even, watching Bucky out of the corner of his eye. Bucky’s whole demeanor had changed the minute he’d slid into the car, becoming withdrawn, quiet, more anxious the closer they get to the clinic. Steve can’t help but worry that yesterday had taken a bigger toll on Bucky than he’d admitted to.

Finally shifting in his seat, Bucky hums noncommittally as his gaze drifts over the glowing blue lights of the dash, flicking over the outside temperature reading, and the numbers of the muted radio station—anything it seems, to keep his eyes off Steve. 

“It’s okay if you change your mind,” Steve continues gently. “If yesterday was… not what you were expecting, it’s not too late to take you to the hospital. I can come with—”

“ _No_. That’s not happening.”

The vehemency of Bucky’s voice pulls Steve’s focus like a magnet. The line between Bucky’s brows is deeper now, and those plush lips are pressed together tightly. Steve’s gaze lingers a moment too long, only broken by the glare of brake lights in his peripheral vision. He throws a quick look over his shoulder before switching lanes, sending a silent apology to the guy behind him that has to step on his breaks to avoid rear-ending them.

The near-miss rattles him, pushing his heart into his throat, and he tightens his grip on the steering wheel. It had been so much easier last night, to drive without the distraction of Bucky giving off unsettling energy, and throwing him furtive looks. Although he concedes, the scent is much more manageable today; either Bucky is wearing new scent-blocking underwear, or his protein levels have come up enough to start easing his symptoms. 

Still, neither of those do anything to dull the sour scent flooding from Bucky’s skin.

“You don’t have to tell me, but… is there a reason you hate hospitals so much?”

When Bucky doesn’t answer, Steve risks another glance. Bucky has his chin tucked to his chest, plucking at the loose threads of a hole in his jeans, looking so much like the scared kitten from yesterday that Steve wants to pull the car over, gather Bucky into his arms and soothe him, consequences be damned. He’s looking for a spot to pull out of traffic when Bucky’s soft voice has him darting a look to the passenger seat instead. 

“When I was a kid, I had to spend a month in hospital.”

Sympathy tightens Steve’s chest. A hospital is a miserable place to be for anyone, but they’re especially traumatic for kids. To be alone, separated from their family—he’d seen it a lot during his training, and it broke his heart every single time. “That must have been rough.” 

“I was in a medical trial, and there were… complications.” Bucky’s voice cracks on the last word.

Steve has never been more grateful for a red light in his life. After easing the car to a stop, he twists in his seat, facing Bucky. _A medical trial? For kids?_ He trains his face blank. No wonder Bucky is terrified of hospitals; he must have been really sick for his parents to have put him through that.

“Do you know about _Rebirth?”_ Each word trembles as it leaves Bucky’s mouth.

It takes a moment for the words to find purchase in Steve’s brain, but when they do, his careful composure cracks as confusion gives way to understanding, his face twisting as shock and revulsion rush through him in quick succession. _Jesus_. He’d learned about the experiment in med-school. It hadn’t been widely publicized, most of the world had no idea—doubtlessly because most of the world would have taken issue with grown men treating children like lab rats. And for nothing. It hadn’t been successful— it was _never going to be_ successful; they were idiots to think it would, and monsters for even trying. For treating omegas like they needed to be cured, like some kind of disease. 

Steve swallows down the anguished growl starting in his throat. Bucky doesn’t need his anger or outrage, just needs him to listen. The deep breath he pulls in does nothing to extinguish the flames of rage licking through him, but he nods anyway, prompting Bucky to continue. “The omega conversion project?”

Bucky mirrors Steve’s motion, his head jerking haltingly. “HydraPharm were so sure they’d found a way to solve the alpha birth decline crisis by simply _making_ more alphas. But it didn’t work—” he gestures to himself, a strained smile without a flicker of humor twisting his lips, “—obviously. The serum they injected us with was excruciating, the side-effects almost killed half of us, and the tests were… brutal. But when they started getting desperate, trying to _activate_ the serum inside us—” Bucky’s voice breaks. He lowers his eyes, blinking wetly. “I just… all of that, the memories, it’s all still inside my head, and hospitals they just… I know it’s stupid, it doesn’t make sense, but I don’t… I can’t…”

“Shh, no, it’s okay, it makes _perfect_ sense, Bucky.” Without thinking, Steve reaches out to grab Bucky’s thigh—the closest thing to his hand—and squeezes carefully. He can’t stop the anger roughing his voice, his internal fury building and escaping through any means it can. “I’m so sorry they did that to you. It was an abhorrent, inhuman idea that was never going to work. They shouldn’t have put anyone through that, especially not children.”

Bucky’s eyes remain downcast as he draws a deep breath, but when he speaks again, the tremble is gone from his voice, the smooth tones sounding oddly detached like he’s talking about someone else’s life. “It makes sense, in a twisted way. For all intents and purposes, _our_ purpose is to birth the next generation of alphas. But the only way we can do that is _with_ an alpha, and even then, the odds are fifty-fifty. They thought the protein was the key to the designations, so if they could trigger its production, alter our body’s chemical makeup, I guess they thought they could fix us.”

The growl bursts free before Steve can stop it. He tightens his hold on the thigh under his hand. “There’s nothing to fix, Bucky. Omegas aren’t _broken.”_

Bucky’s eyes, wide and wet, lift just as a blaring of a horn behind them makes Steve curse and Bucky jolt in his seat. In the rear-view mirror, Steve can see the guy behind him waving out his window, gesturing to—Steve glances at the traffic lights, now glowing bright green. _Ahh, shit._

Releasing Bucky’s leg reluctantly, Steve twists back into position, and clamps both hands on the steering wheel, gripping it until his fingers are aching, trying to process this new information as he puts the car back into motion. 

After everything Bucky has been through, it’s amazing he’d even come into the clinic. It definitely explains why he’s always tried to get by on his own. Steve grinds his teeth against the emotions seething inside him, filling him with the irrational desire to hunt down every single person who had ever hurt Bucky—physically, mentally, emotionally—and inflict the same pain onto them. He curses under his breath as he takes a corner too sharply, his racing mind making him careless. 

Oblivious to the storm swirling inside Steve, Bucky continues in the same flat voice. “Maybe, but our place in the world _is_. Or, at least it was. I think it’s why my parents agreed to the trial. They didn’t know what it would entail, of course. Hydra lied to them, sold them a bill of goods, sunshine and rainbows, a brighter future for their child, and what parent doesn’t want that? Alphas are respected, envied and revered, a designation that comes with privilege whether you ask for it or not.” 

Steve can’t bring himself to look back at Bucky, focusing all his attention on trying to calm his thundering heart and get them to the clinic in one piece. He won’t be the latest in a long line of people to hurt the precious omega sitting next to him. 

Bucky doesn’t seem to notice Steve’s silence, sighing quietly before more words spill from his lips. “My father was a beta, and they were, even then, regarded as suited to business and decision making, not at the mercy of uncontrollable hormonal swings. It gave him a comfortable enough life, but never with the esteem or recognition that being an alpha would have brought him. He thought happiness and designations were intrinsically linked, and knew an omega’s place was always under an alpha. He wanted more for me than that.”

The statement falls simply from Bucky’s lips, plainly with no emotion anchored to the words, no resentment or hatred, and Steve is stunned. It had taken him so long to come to terms with the circumstances of his mother’s passing, and he still held on to so much anger because of it, at how she was treated. And yet Bucky has survived worse and somehow come out the other side without it twisting him into a bitter, vengeful person. He has kept his pure heart. 

Astonishment steals Steve’s breath. Bucky Barnes is unlike anyone he’s ever met—it’s not a new thought, but he hadn’t realized just how true it really is until this moment. 

Steve guides the car down into the parking garage, pulls into his spot, and kills the engine before turning back to Bucky.

A harsh overhead light slices through the window and clings to Bucky’s hair, lighting it up in a golden glow, making him look ethereal in the otherwise dim light.

Bucky’s skin is warm and smooth under Steve’s hand as he wraps his fingers around a slender wrist, rubbing his thumb in small circles over the delicate pulse point. Bucky doesn’t flinch at the touch, doesn’t pull away, doesn’t even open his eyes. Steve takes the opportunity to drink in the beautiful lines of Bucky’s face—the sharp cheekbones and chiseled jaw, the perfect nose and the tiny cluster of faint freckles dusted across it.

A profound ache starts in Steve's chest.

He’d never been able to understand why omegas are seen as _less than_ and treated as such. The stunning man before him is less than no-one, but because of _Rebirth_ , Bucky has probably never felt anything but shame for his designation. The spark of fury catches anew, and Steve clenches his jaw tight against the curse coiled on his tongue. How could anyone make Bucky feel anything but perfect? He should be proud to be an omega; omegas are the only reason anyone of any designation has ever lived at all, the only designation able to bring new life into the world. It’s a position of strength, not weakness, one that should demand respect, and yet…

“I’m not blind or stupid, Bucky, I know how the world works, how some of the world still sees omegas, but...I need you to know that’s not how I see them, that’s not — that’s not how _I_ see _you.”_

Bucky’s eyes finally open at the quiet declaration, light gray all but obscured by darkness.

“You’re not just a—” Steve clamps his lips together tightly, trapping the word _patient_ behind them. Hopefully, the time will come when he can lay his cards on the table and be truly honest with Bucky. But that time is not now. “You’re not just an omega, Bucky,” he measures each word before setting them free, half-afraid he’ll slip up, and let his heart run away with his mouth. “You’re more than the sum of people’s expectations or limitations or prejudices. You are an amazing man, and you should never feel _less than_ anyone, not even an alpha. _Especially_ not an alpha.”

Something flickers across Bucky’s face that Steve is too slow to catch, but the weight of Bucky’s gaze locked on his changes—an almost imperceivable shift—before he gives a single, slow nod. The lingering sour note on Bucky’s skin is replaced by the faintest trace of lavender-infused honey.

They’re so close Steve can feel Bucky’s soft breath dance across his cheek. He opens his mouth as his gaze falls to Bucky’s. He could just tip forward, press their lips together, tell Bucky how he feels without saying a word. Would Bucky kiss him back? Pull away? Slap him and run from the car? 

The last thought breaks the spell and Steve leans back slowly, easing out of Bucky’s space, and lifts his hand from Bucky’s warmth. He can’t get carried away; he has a job to do. Bucky doesn't need his advances, he needs his help.

He just needs to get through today. 

And tomorrow. 

And the day after. 

It feels like a lifetime. 

Steve pushes his lips up at the corners in a smile he knows doesn’t reach his eyes, hoping Bucky doesn’t notice. “So, you ready to do this again?”

Nodding, Bucky’s lips mirror his. So do his eyes. The spark from this morning has been extinguished, smothered by old wounds reopening. “Can’t be any worse than yesterday, right?” 

Steve’s smile wavers before collapsing completely, as foreboding settles deep into his bones. For reasons he can’t put voice to, he’s overcome with the certainty that today is going to be much, much worse.


	7. Extreme Measures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Thank you for being patient while I finished side-quests. Or, tried to. Eh. Still more to fill, but I'm hoping to start posting this more regularly in September.
> 
> ii. And speaking of posting, I had to split this chapter for length, you know me and 10k chapters. The second part will be up very soon.
> 
> iii. This chapter is roughly.... 76% porn? So, y'know. Prepare thyself.

Steve really hates it when he's right.

The morning had started with such promise. He'd checked his appointment log to find only three patients booked in for this afternoon, allowing a little wriggle room if the seedings ran long. Bucky had consented to a new scent blocker—a twenty-four-hour injection, meaning Steve wouldn't be needed for guard dog duty again. Even Wanda had been too tired from her big night to play twenty questions about Bucky. All in all, things were looking up.

And then... then Steve had caught sight of Bucky's puffy little ring, dripping slick and angry red, and the world had come apart at the seams. And though he'd almost come undone right along with it, he'd managed to stay strong—his early-morning shower exploits helping him maintain control.

Until now.

Now, the throaty moans and soft whimpers paint vivid images behind his closed eyelids, the soundtrack of Bucky's pleasure filling his head and making him throb. He knows Bucky is writhing, with hands anchored on the sides of the table, head scrubbing side to side... just like the first two times when he was getting close. Like the first two times _Steve_ had gotten close.

But he _should not_ be thinking about that, now. He should be focusing the whole of his attention on his fingers—on the spongy little bundle of nerves beneath them—as he rubs firm, small circles over Bucky's prostate, trying desperately to coax a final orgasm out of his already wrecked body.

"No, no, no. P-please, stop, I—I just... I'm sorry—I just—need a minute, I'm sorry," Bucky cries, his voice breaking on the apology.

Steve blinks the blur off the world, finding focus on Bucky, on the tears rolling down already-wet trails. "Jesus, Bucky, why didn't you—"

Stabbing regret freezes him momentarily before he uncurls his fingers and guides them gently from Bucky's quivering hole, watching them slide free on a flood of slick. Biting back the groan and the urge to bury his face between Bucky's cheeks, Steve drags his eyes away, snapping the gloves off before tossing them onto the trolley holding the machine, ready and waiting between spread thighs.

More tears leak from under wet lashes, and Steve can't stop himself from moving up to wipe his thumb across Bucky's cheek, brushing the tears away. "Shh. It's okay; you've nothing to be sorry for."

Irritation grates at him, but Steve keeps his thumb dancing across Bucky's jaw reassuringly. The only one that should be apologizing is _him_. He'd been so fucking focused on trying to get through the procedures without losing control that he'd lost sight of the most important thing—Bucky.

Bucky shakes his head frantically, curling his fists around the gown pooling at the top of his thighs, and tries to tug it down, whether for modesty or from anxiety, Steve isn't sure.

"You don't understand," Bucky grinds out forlornly. "I—last night, I—I needed… needed to…" He turns wide, pleading eyes to Steve before wincing. "I forgot about today, that I'd need to… c-come… again… three more times… so last night, I just—and I don't think I can, not again. I'm so sorry," he stutters out. His already flushed skin burns brighter as fresh tears well up and spill down his cheeks. A hiccuping sob breaks from his chest as he swipes the moisture away with the back of his hand.

"It's okay. I—" Steve swallows roughly. He can't say he already _knows,_ "—understand, and it's completely normal. Managing a heat can be difficult, and masturbation is an essential part of dealing with the excess—" he breaks off as Bucky groans his name.

"That's not helping."

Steve sets his jaw to keep his apology locked behind his teeth, knowing that's a slippery slope he won't survive. He'd almost admitted he knows what Bucky was doing last night, and how the hell could he explain that? Reveal _that's_ the reason he'd offered manual stimulation from the outset, knowing after the night Bucky had, it was the kinder, gentler option? The only thing he didn't know is how Bucky had brought himself to orgasm over and over again, whether it was with toys as well as good old fashioned—

_Oh._

The movement of Bucky releasing the gown and pressing balled-up fists to the table catches Steve's attention, but it's the fabric twitching that holds it, and the well-lubricated wheels start turning in his head.

"Maybe it could," Steve says before he can stop himself, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth, he regrets them, wishes he could pluck them out of the air and shove them back into his throat, swallow them down, and pretend he'd never said a thing because Steve's not sure he'll survive _that_. But Bucky is looking up at him, watery eyes brimming with confusion and guilt, and Steve's instincts to protect Bucky surge to the surface and sends the half-formed plan rushing over his lips.

"I think we can agree manual stimulation isn't going to work this time. You barely made it through the second session. Do you think, I mean, would you be comfortable with, ah," _Don't say it. Do not say it._ Steve scrapes his tongue over suddenly dry lips. "Do you think you could climax through masturbation?"

The question hangs in the air between them, and a bolt of panic strikes Steve's heart when Bucky pales, and his eyes edge wider still.

Anxiety fizzes through Steve's whole body, like a shaken soda can about to pop, as realization dawns. He's made a monumental error in judgment. A doctor doesn't ask his patient to jerk off for them. Fucking hell, Bucky must think... Damnit. He's not only going to lose Bucky as a patient; he's going to lose his practice, too. But maybe that's for the best because he's obviously lost his fucking mind. His mental self-flagellation is interrupted by the gown twitching again low on Bucky's belly.

"Uhh…"

Steve drags his eyes back to Bucky's face, watching color stain his cheeks. Buoyed by the fact Bucky hadn't yelled at him or thrown something or run from the room, Steve adds quickly, "I, ah, with privacy, of course. I can draw the curtain for you, and I'll just—I'll wait outside until you're—you're ready to be knotted—" his cock drools at the thought, but he resolutely ignores it… like he's been ignoring it since the first session hours ago. "—uh, by the machine, the machine's knot." The intense burning of his neck feels one degree off spontaneous combustion, and he rubs at it distractedly as he fixes his eyes on the machine between Bucky's thighs. "It's not exactly the routine way of doing things, but we're already a bit outside the lines on this one, and with your sensitivity, I'm not sure how else to…" Steve shrugs in what he prays is an off-hand, casual way, and waits for an answer.

"I—I can try," Bucky says softly.

Steve keeps his eyes away from Bucky, away from temptation, and gives a curt nod before dragging the curtain around the table as he moves away.

He plants himself barely five steps clear of the table, facing his desk as he folds his arms across his chest. The metal rings dancing on the ceiling track, holding the privacy screen in place, jangles his nerves as the fabric of the curtain flutters against his back. He should move forward, give Bucky more space, more privacy, but as if tethered to him by an invisible string, Steve can't urge his feet to move another step.

"When you're about to co—to climax, call out to me, I'll be right here," Steve murmurs, hating the husk in his voice.

Bucky doesn't answer, and for a long moment, there's nothing but the sound of shallow breathing from behind the curtain. But then, there's the telltale rustling of the gown, and a soft groan and Steve squeezes his eyes shut as his mind supplies tantalizing visions of what's happening mere feet behind him. Closing his eyes only makes things worse, though—the lack of visual input or distractions allowing the images to burst brighter and sharper behind his lids.

Bucky's high-pitched whine makes Steve's eyes fly open, and he squeezes tightly at his arms to keep his hands where they are and not reaching for his aching cock.

"Everything okay?"

"Yeah, just—yeah."

More rustling dances on the air. A breathless moan follows, and then Bucky's soft breathing is coming quicker, the only sound in the silent room before—

_Oh, fuck._

Steve hadn't given this plan much thought, but if he had, he would have assumed it wouldn't be too dissimilar from last night—the sounds of Bucky moaning, the sugary scent of his slick and the salty tang of his sweat and come. But this… this is _nothing_ like last night.

Resisting the urge to slam his palms against his ears, Steve grits his teeth listening to the wet sounds of Bucky's hand sliding over his cock. The force of raw desire that slams into him, the desire to watch, to see Bucky bringing himself pleasure has his arms untucking from his chest and reaching for the curtain before he stops himself, a whisper away from the fabric.

Bucky pants soft little noises as his pace increases, and fuck, he's working his cock so fast, Steve can picture those white teeth driving into his lip, trying to muffle his sounds as his hips rock off the table, fucking his fist…

A desperate wail splits the air, slamming into Steve's chest, and jerking him out of his fantasy. Shit, did Bucky just— 

"Bucky? Are you ready?" The words feel like sandpaper, scraping from his throat, but he can't swallow to soothe it.

"N-no, no. I ca—I, not yet." Bucky's voice is thick, his own words sounding like they're choking him, and Steve feels another flash of sympathy.

After the night Bucky had, Steve can't imagine how sensitive he must be, how spent. Maybe he should have interrupted, played innocent and reminded Bucky about the appointment, pretending he didn't know what was happening inside the apartment. But, no, he had wanted to spare himself the awkward, embarrassing moment, and now, Bucky is paying the price.

Lost in his ruminations, he almost doesn't hear Bucky's soft gasp.

_"St-Steve."_

Steve doesn't feel his feet moving, but suddenly he's looking down at Bucky on the bed, eyes darting to his precome-coated hand wrapped tightly around his bare cock—and fuck, when did he remove the condom?—before returning to beautiful light eyes almost wholly eclipsed with black. His brain stutters for a second before coming back online, and he blinks, remembering the reason Bucky is here at all. "Are you ready?"

Damp hair catches on the mat as Bucky scrubs his head against it. "No, I c-can't, I'm s-sorry." Dark lashes lower as more tears drip down his flaming cheeks. "I'm so close, but I can't, I need m-more, I need…" Bucky trails off, his words chased by an anguished sob.

"Hey, shh, it's okay. You're okay." Steve steps on the pedal of the exam table, raising the adjustable back, slowly bringing Bucky to a reclined sitting position, but his face remains downcast as his face comes level with Steve's chest.

Bucky looks so utterly ravaged, and Steve's chest compresses painfully. Carefully, he wipes away the fresh tears from Bucky's face and brushes away the hair clinging to sweat-slicked skin. He tells himself he's just providing comfort for Bucky, but he knows that's only half true. His whole body aches with the intimacy he feels, having Bucky here like this, taking care of him. 

Steve wants to protect him, wants to chase away all the pain, but knows his protein levels are still too low. Bucky needs this, and the only thing Steve can do to help is to try and get it over and done with as soon as possible.

Dragging himself away, he moves to the end of the bed, focusing on what needs to be done. Gently, he wraps his hands around Bucky's ankles and places them into the stirrups, then takes the dildo from the holder and slides it slowly back into Bucky's body, watching the swollen hole stretch around it beautifully. His efforts punch a high-pitched whine from Bucky's throat that goes straight to Steve's already throbbing cock.

"You did great, you did so well, Bucky. You're almost there. You're close, aren't you?" The words tumble past Steve's lips without thought, just wanting to lavish praise on the sweet omega, knowing it'll only help push him closer to the edge. And just like he expects, Bucky's eyes drag open, and he nods fervently.

"I need… help, I need…" Bucky wriggles his hips, seating himself more firmly on the fake cock, his distended rim edging around the top swell of the knot. "Need you, _please,_ Steve, need you to touch me."

After giving the dildo one last envious look, Steve steps back up to the head of the table, and locks his hand down on Bucky's hip, stroking the smooth skin beneath his thumb. "Better to have the machine inside you, ready. I think that's all you can take right now." Though, god, the memory of Bucky stretched so wide around his fingers alongside the machine makes him leak.

Bucky shakes his head. "No, not there… here," he says, wrapping his hand around his cock again, gasping as he wrenches his hand up, twisting, before coming to rest back at the base. “Wanna feel your hands on me _here_.”

It takes Steve a moment to realize the guttural moan filling the room is tearing from his own body, and he startles, the sound cutting off abruptly as he clears his throat. He can't drag his eyes from the perfect line of Bucky's cock—jutting up, proud and wet and needy—as he shakes his head. "I—I can't do that, Bucky. I'm sorry."

Bucky's whole body seems to wither under the rejection; the tension draining from him as he sags against the table.

_"Please,_ Steve. You need me t'come…. need you to make me," he slurs, exhaustion eating up the edges of his words. "I can't—I jus' can't by m' self, I tried, I swear, I _tried_." On a stuttered exhale, Bucky's lashes drift down, and his hand loosens then falls from his cock.

Alarm bells blare in Steve's head, and he grips Bucky by the shoulders and shakes gently. "Hey, open your eyes for me, Bucky." Steve slides two fingers up to press into Bucky's neck under his jaw. "Bucky? Stay with me. Can you do that for me?" The pulse under his fingers is racing and weak, but Bucky nods, his lashes fluttering.

Relief rushes through Steve so fast and intense it steals his breath. He opens his mouth, but the words stick in his throat, and he swallows twice before he can force them out. "That's it, stay awake for me, and I'll—" his brain blanks, searching for a solution "I'm going to help you, just… just hold on for a minute. Keep your eyes open for me," he murmurs. He steps away from the table, planting his hands on his hips and twisting, casting his gaze around for something _— anything_—to trigger some kind of divine inspiration.

What the fuck is he supposed to do? He has to… _shit._ He's going to have to call an ambulance and get Bucky admitted to hospital. They can administer the last protein dose, hang an I.V., and let him get some rest. Maybe with a sedative, Bucky will be okay; He'll probably just wake up tomorrow feeling refreshed and healthy... and betrayed and never speak to Steve again.

Steve's gut clenches painfully at the thought. He'd promised. But, aside from taking matters into his own hands and giving Bucky _his_ protein… No. He can't do _that_ , but the raw, primal urges screaming through him give him an idea—maybe he can stir Bucky's.

The possibility is sound, though he's sure the golden intentions will lead to nothing but brimstone and regret. Still, with no other option, he unfastens the buttons of his shirt with trembling fingers before shucking it from his shoulders. He balls it up and strides to the small sink in the corner of the room.

Abandoning his shirt on the bench, he pulls three sheets of paper toweling from the dispenser on the wall. The water soaks into it quickly, turning it dark and heavy, and he squirts the pink hand wash onto it before scrubbing it under his arm, hissing as the cold water runs down his heated skin. The foamy wash lathers quickly, clinging to the hair. When he's sure all traces of blocker have been removed, he rinses the scrunched paper, waiting until the suds have stopped dripping from it before wringing it out and lifting it back to his arm, cleaning the soap from his skin.

Walking stiffly back to the table, Steve ignores the fluttering in his chest—anticipation and trepidation at war in the chambers of his heart. He tries to tell himself he's doing this for _Bucky_ , not himself, but the small voice in the back of his mind and the heavy ache in his swollen knot cast doubt on that assertion.

Bucky's closed lids raise slowly as Steve slides an arm between his back and the table, lifting him away from the hard surface before Steve cradles him against his own chest, instead.

A shuddering moan rips from Bucky's throat as he rubs his face over the newly exposed skin, reacting to the alpha scent. The sound soaks into Steve's every pore, and he grits his teeth, trapping an answering sound in his own throat as Bucky runs gentle fingers over his naked chest.

"Oh, god, Steve…"

Steve knows he should be happy for the way Bucky has come alive in his arms, but he's not entirely sure the responsive omega won't kill him before they're done. "I need you to put your hand back on yourself. Do you think you can do that for me?"

Bucky's cheek scrubs over Steve's chest, pulling in a deep breath through his nose and reaches down to take himself in hand once more. Steve wants to press a kiss to the sweat-slicked forehead, to murmur praises and tell him he's such a good boy, so eager to please, but he resists, knowing the lines are blurry enough as it is, and if he starts, he's never going to want to stop.

"Smell so good, so fuckin' good, makes me so wet," Bucky whispers, and Steve can feel every word hot on his skin.

The obscene sounds of skin on wet skin blanket the room, broken only by Bucky's sharp breaths pulled in through his nose, every exhale kissing Steve's chest. Goosebumps erupt from his skin as Bucky drags his face across the naked expanse, nudging Steve's arm out of the way, chasing the source of the scent.

Steve lifts his arm as much as he can while keeping his hold on Bucky's back, allowing better access, but still startles when Bucky nuzzles into his armpit, whimpering.

The feel of Bucky scenting him, the knowledge he's taking from him, _wanting_ him, knocks Steve off balance and the world shifts like a receding wave pulling the sand from under his feet.

"That's it, Bucky, just take deep breaths and keep moving that hand, swee—" Steve drives his teeth into his lip, stopping the endearment, though not in time. His fingers spasm against Bucky's back, digging into his skin. His cock is throbbing in time with his rapid heartbeat, in time with Bucky's constant stream of whimpers and moans, and Steve shoves his hips against the bed, but the thrill of pain does nothing but notch his pleasure higher.

Bucky trembles in his hold, the frantic motions from his arm as his hand flies over his cock wracking through his body, but he whines, high and frustrated, and Steve can feel wetness leak onto his skin.

"Touch me, please, _please,"_ Bucky begs. "Please, I'm so close, wanna feel you, please, Steve, please, _please_."

Steve curls his free hand into a fist, fighting the urge to give in to Bucky's plea. "You're doing so good, bab—Bucky."

_Fuck._

He can feel his control slipping. His doctor's skin is burning away, leaving nothing but a shell filled with uncontrollable alpha instincts. He runs his fingers over the pale, perfect flesh of Bucky's inner thigh, tracing teasing, mindless patterns. He could just lift his hand a little higher, rake his knuckles over Bucky's sensitive balls. Would it be enough to push him over the edge?

Bucky tries to grind down, chasing Steve's hand, groaning his displeasure as the dildo restricts his movement. "You can do this; you're almost there. Just keep making yourself feel good, just like that." Steve manages to seal his lips before adding the _baby_ this time, though it's a narrowly won victory. He yearns to call Bucky baby, sweet thing, sugar, _mine_.

The thought has his scent burning stronger, he can smell it rising from his skin, and Bucky whimpers again, louder now, rubbing his face under Steve's arm before—

"Oh, fuck, _Bucky!"_ Steve jerks forward as his cock pulses untouched in his pants at the feel of the warm, wet swipe of Bucky's tongue lapping at his armpit. His fingers dig into Bucky's thigh, clenching down as he bites hard at his lip, swallowing down his own moans as his cock jerks and spits as Bucky continues to lave at his scent gland, his tongue dragging over the wet hairs.

Without a hand or hole to milk it, his knot is burning, pleasure blurring into pain, too swollen to empty completely, and when Bucky lifts his tongue and rubs his cheek over the hairs as if wanting to coat himself in alpha scent—Steve's scent—and turns pleading eyes on him, Steve's lost.

"Please, Steve, make me come—need you, please Steve, please… _Alpha,_ " Bucky sobs.

Steve breaks.

The growl isn't finished rumbling through his chest before he's wrapping his large hand around Bucky's smaller one, guiding it up and down the dripping cock. It's large for an omega, and the prettiest cock he's ever seen, flushed red and so wet, crying for release. He wants to take it into his mouth, to suck and lick and tease until his jaw is aching with it.

"Yes, yes, gonna make me come, Steve, gonna come for you, just you," Bucky babbles, and Steve tightens his grip, alpha pride flaring inside him.  
Bucky's precome is warm as it runs down Steve's hand, sparking something almost forgotten in the lust-haze fogging his mind. Bucky's so close now, close enough. He releases Bucky to stretch down to the machine, hitting the green button to start it.

"No, no, need you, please," Bucky cries out desperately, lifting his hand not jerking himself to reach for Steve.

"I'm right here, still right here," Steve soothes, returning to his place by Bucky, taking the smaller hand in his once more. Bucky gasps and whines as the dildo moves inside him. "You're so good for me, Bucky, so good, but I need you to come for me now."

"Yesss," Bucky moans, his body tightening and shuddering in Steve's grasp. "Ahh, fuck, I'm coming, I'm coming. Uhhh, _Steve!”_

"That's it, just like that, good boy."

"Steve, Steve, Steve—"

His name falls from Bucky's lips like a prayer, over and over. It's enough to push Steve over the edge again.

Lost in his release, Bucky's hand stills and loosens, but Steve tightens his grip, forcing Bucky's hand around the still-jerking cock, driving it up and down, milking the watery release as it dribbles over their joined hands, wringing every drop from Bucky's spent body even as Steve's own come, thick and hot, pulses over his already messed skin.

The single piercing beep of the machine engaging, delivering the protein, sounds as Steve gives one last, slow stroke of Bucky's cock, watching it twitch dryly, with nothing left to give. But he cradles the softening flesh with Bucky's hand a conduit until his own cock stops spilling his release.  
  
After, he lowers the exhausted, lax omega back down onto the table.

"Mmm, I did it," Bucky's voice is rough and low, trailing away into sleep, but he smiles up at Steve without opening his eyes.

Finally releasing Bucky's hand, Steve runs his clean one through Bucky's hair affectionately, inexplicable pride swelling up inside him for Bucky. "Yeah, you did. You did perfectly. You're perfect. You can rest now, I've got you."

Bucky makes a small contented noise, the smile slipping from his lips as his face relaxes, turning soft with sleep.

Steve stares down at him. There's a strange itch under his skin. he wants to climb onto the table with Bucky and pull him close, slot their bodies together and rub the mess from his skin onto Bucky's, and take Bucky's on to his until they're enveloped in a cocoon of shared scent. Together.

He shakes his head and grabs the wipes to distract himself. He needs to clean Bucky up, set an I.V., make him comfortable for the hour-long transfer, and then clean himself up, too. He hopes to god Clint has pants in his office, or he'll be the one leaving the clinic wrapped in blankets today. With a sigh, Steve runs his fingers through Bucky's hair again, chasing the strands from his beautiful face, and before he can stop himself, bends and brushes his lips across the damp skin.

There's no point pretending anymore, Steve is falling in love with Bucky Barnes, and there's not a goddamn thing he can do about it.

. . .

Steve plucks at the crotch of the too-small jeans, trying to tug it down surreptitiously before leaving Clint's office, but his efforts are in vain. The gods had given him a slight reprieve from his trials, and his last appointment before his lunch break had called to reschedule, and now, the office is empty but for Bucky and Wanda. Still, he tugs his shirttails free from the waist of the ridiculously tight jeans, letting them hang down, grateful for the little modesty the untidy finish provides.

"Wanda, I need you to call my patients for this afternoon and rebook them for another day."

Behind the reception desk, Wanda swivels on her chair and looks up from her phone. "Are you selling the clinic or retiring?"

"I—" Steve blinks as the question parses through his brain. He'd had the whole conversation prepared in his mind, but of course, things aren't going to plan. "Why would you think that?"

"You kept everyone waiting yesterday, and now, you're canceling patients today. Either you don't care about the business, or you're having a midlife crisis. Either way, it means I'm going to be looking for a new job, and I want to register my extreme displeasure. I know I act like I don't care, but my annoying brother-in-law aside, I do like it here."

"That's... nice," Steve hedges, uncertain how to reply to the heartfelt admission. "I promise if the clinic is closing, you'll be the third to know, but it's not. I'm just feeling a bit… under the weather. I'm going to take Buc—Mr. Barnes home, and then I'm going to catch up on some much-needed sleep myself." He tries not to fidget under Wanda's shrewd gaze. Technically speaking, he isn't lying; he does feel… off. "Slot the three in wherever you can find space. I'm happy to stay late or work through my lunch hour to accommodate them on their preferred day. Once you've done that, you can take the rest of the afternoon off. I'll lock up after—"

Wanda's eyes dart to his closed office door. "No," she draws out, "I've already locked up the back door. I'll wait for you, and we can all go out the front together."

Steve can feel the blood draining from his face. "You don't have to—"

"It's no problem. I have no plans today. In fact, if you're going home, you can give me a lift. I might see if Pietro wants to go shopping. He got invited to some baby thing and needs a gift."

Wanda nods like the matter is sorted, and Steve has little choice but to mirror the affirmation. He can hardly tell her that he'll be carrying Bucky out—oh. Shit. He flashes her a tight smile before he turns on his heel and heads back into his office.

He presses the door closed with his palms, running his hands down the cool wood before spinning on the spot, trying to shove his anxiety away. He can't carry a naked-but-for-a-blanket Bucky burrito from the clinic like he had last night. Carrying him out at all is going to require explaining enough.

The green light of the machine is blinking at him, and Steve moves toward it, going through the familiar routine as he lets his mind dash ahead, trying to cobble together a plan that will hold water… or at least float for enough time to get Bucky home.

By the time Steve has removed the cannula from Bucky's arm and the dildo from his ass, the only solution he's come up with is the one he'd avoided yesterday—he has to dress Bucky. But yesterday, he hadn't had his hand on Bucky's cock, hadn't milked an orgasm out of him, hadn't had the omega scenting and licking him, so all in all, on the intimacy scale, hopefully, Bucky won't find it overly intrusive.

The heat in Steve's gut, coiling warm and insistent since Bucky had scented him, flares a little brighter as he pushes the plug into Bucky's ass. The black silicone slides easily into Bucky's sleeping body, the abused, red rim offering no resistance as the tapered tip gives way to the bulbous faux-knot, swallowing it up until only the flat base remains outside, anchoring it in place.

Steve grabs Bucky's clothes from the chair and places them on the table before he gathers Bucky into his arms, wrapping an arm around his back and sliding one under his knees. Steve pulls him to a sitting position, taking his weight as he lowers Bucky's legs down, letting them dangle off the table.

"Hey, sweetheart, can you wake up for me? It's time to go home."  
  
Bucky's face pinches tight as he groans, but his eyelids don't lift. "Nuh, sleepy."

Steve chuckles softly, sweeping his hand through Bucky's hair. With a little awkward shuffling, he manages to wrestle a tshirt into place, propping Bucky's lax body upon his chest as he pulls the omega's arms through the long sleeves, and drags the hem down snuggly over his torso, his breath hitching when his knuckles graze over the smooth, soft skin.

The noise or the jostling seems to rouse Bucky, and his heavy-lidded eyes open enough for Steve to find a slice of grey. His head lifts off Steve's chest as he sits up, but he wobbles and starts to pitch sideways, and Steve reaches out to steady him, delighting at the way Bucky smiles up at him dopily, face still soft from sleep.

"I have to put your jeans on now," Steve murmurs. "Do you think you can sit there for me while I do?"

Bucky blinks lazily as if considering it before he nods.

"Good boy." Steve pretends not to notice how that sleepy grin pushes higher, tries to ignore the resulting tightness in his chest, and grabs the jeans instead. He bunches up the first leg length and guides it over Bucky's foot before quickly repeating the actions with the other.

Steve has to tug the denim up over Bucky's legs, and he curses under his breath. Why the fuck had Bucky chosen a pair of painted-on pants? How did he get these on in the first place? Steve's brain fills with images of Bucky jumping up and down to get the skin-tight jeans on even as he yanks and jerks the fabric over Bucky's thighs until the edge of the table thwarts his progress.

"'M fine, s'okay, I can do it," Bucky mumbles, his hands pulling ineffectually at the denim.

Steve takes Bucky's hands and lifts them gently, placing them on the edge of the table and curling his fingers down around it. "I've got it. You just concentrate on holding on to the table. Keep yourself upright. Can you do that for me?"

Bucky doesn't answer, his eyes drifting closed again, but he doesn't let go of the table, and Steve takes that as a _yes_. He wraps an arm around Bucky's waist and lifts him off the table enough to grip the waistband and pull the pooled fabric over Bucky's ass, thankful for the open zipper giving him a little more leeway.

Bucky gasps as Steve sets him back down, and he tips forward, his head falling onto Steve's chest. "Mhm, okay," he answers belatedly.

The feel of Bucky's face rubbing gently across his chest distracts Steve, and for a minute, he just stands there, letting Bucky's heat soak into him through the thin fabric of his shirt. These little intimate moments with Bucky stir something in him, the yearning for a _more_ that he can't have. But he can't help himself. It's only when the itching under his skin starts again that Steve carefully tucks Bucky into his jeans and pulls the zipper closed.

Lifting Bucky from the bed sends sparks of awareness shooting through him, and he doesn't have strength left to fight it. Bucky's dead weight in his arms makes the muscles in his fatigued body ache, but he just tightens his hold, pulling Bucky more snugly against his chest as he strides from the room.

Expecting it, Steve ignores how Wanda's eyebrows jump to her hairline as he comes into view. He nods back toward his office. "I'm going to get Bucky settled in the car, but there's a tshirt and pair of shoes in the exam room I need you to grab before you lock up. I'll wait for you in the car; it's in my usual spot." 

Without waiting to hear the reply, Steve carries Bucky out of the front doors of the clinic. He's swallowed up almost immediately by a crowd of people. They're too focused on themselves to worry about him and Bucky, or maybe they've just seen stranger things than an alpha carrying his unconscious omega down a busy street in the middle of the day.

_His omega._

A thrill of possessiveness coils through him so fiercely he has to choke back the growl building in the back of his throat. The heat under his skin is back, and his whole body feels like a raw nerve. Something has shifted this morning, Steve isn't sure what it is, but he can feel it building like a storm on the horizon. Bucky's salvation may yet be his own damnation, but at the moment, with the omega cradled in his arms, he can't bring himself to care.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> iv. As always, I love to hear your thoughts! Did you think it was sweet 💗 or spicy 🌶️ ? Were you expecting Steve's... reaction? 💦💦 
> 
> v. On tumblr @ thewaythatwerust , though be warned that I am bad at spoiling the upcoming sequel (oop) so proceed with caution.


	8. Individual Results May Vary

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. In case you missed a notification, this is the second update I've posted today. Please be sure you've read the first half (#accidental armpit kink) before you read this one, or you may be a bit confused.

Wanda eyes Steve distrustfully. “Really? He _really_ lives in your building. That’s kind of convenient, isn’t it?”

Steve adjusts Bucky in his arms, his threads of patience wearing thin and about to snap completely. The whole drive home had been filled with an endless stream of Wanda’s questions, and he’s reached his breaking point. “I'm not kidnapping him, Wanda, Jesus. Plenty of our patients live in this building, and the one next to it, and the one up the street,” Steve answers tersely, stopping on Clint and Pietro’s floor. “Can you just tell Barton I’ll be down to see him in a few minutes, please? He’s probably thought I’ve forgotten him.”

“Oh, I’ll tell him,” Wanda calls as she makes her way to her brother’s apartment. “I’m going to tell him about you wearing his pants and Sleeping Beauty, too,” she sing-songs, twisting to throw a smirk over her shoulder.

 _Fucking fantastic._ Yesterday he was contemplating giving Wanda a raise, today he wants to fire her. Steve just groans and starts up the flights of stairs to Bucky’s apartment, realizing he had gotten so caught up in Bucky this morning, he hasn’t figured out what the hell he’s going to tell Clint. How can he explain what he doesn’t understand himself?

He’s been watching Bucky from the shadows for the past month—and fuck, that doesn’t sound creepy at all. But he'd been waiting and hoping that the elusive omega would approach him or show some form of interest, but he’d waited in vain. Where almost every other omega and handful of betas in the building had come sniffing around within his first week, it was almost like Bucky had gone out of his way to _avoid_ Steve.

He'd started to think that maybe Bucky just isn’t into alphas, he wouldn’t be the first, but today’s reaction shattered that theory completely. The way Bucky reacted to his scent, the way he’d _begged so sweetly_ —Steve drives his teeth into his lower lip as his cock strains against his borrowed jeans painfully. Finally arriving at Bucky’s door, Steve readjust the precious cargo cradled against his chest, lifting a knee to rest under Bucky’s ass to help balance the weight as he raises one hand to fish the apartment key from Bucky’s front pocket. He sends a silent thank you to the universe that Bucky had remembered it today as he unlocks the door and lets himself inside.

Bucky’s apartment is the same layout as his own, but overflowing with so much personality Steve comes to a standstill just beyond the kitchen, turning in a slow circle to take it all in. Movie posters decorate the walls, and he’s oddly proud to recognize a few of his favorites in the colorful mix. Stacks of recipe books and open notebooks are piled high on the kitchen bench and beside the tv, and all manner of throw pillows and blankets adorn the comfortable-looking couch and two unmatched single-seaters. Ingredients and unwashed mixing bowls litter the kitchen, but it doesn’t look messy somehow, just well-loved, and Steve realizes he’s looking at the cost of his breakfast this morning.

The whole apartment feels well-lived in, designed for pleasure rather than show. It’s calming and safe, brimming with warmth and comfort, just like… like a _nest_. The image of the dark-haired pup flashes through his mind again, and he can see so perfectly, Bucky lifting the tiny bundle in his arms, raising it to his breast, nursing the precious babe as he turns his face up to Steve, beaming up at him, so much love in those light eyes—

Bucky’s groan rises above the strange buzzing in his ears, and Steve startles as the vision slips away. It takes the painful twinging in his fingers to realize that they’re digging into Bucky’s skin, and he forces his hands to relax as he strides into the bedroom. His fantasies are getting out of hand, no longer creeping around the edges of his mind at night, but slamming into his chest in the middle of the day. It’s just exhaustion lowering his guard, stirring up his subconscious, that’s all. He needs to leave Bucky to rest and go and get some of his own, and then he’ll be fine. The thought feels hollow, false, but he clings to the promise with all the desperation of a drowning man clinging to a life-preserver.

“I need you to open your eyes for me, Bucky. Just once more,” Steve coaxes gently, needing to know Bucky is okay before he leaves. Dark lashes flutter, barely separating. “Come on, yeah, that’s it, that’s good.”

Bucky’s eyelids drag up a little more before he blinks at Steve, his brow furrowing.

“There you are. How are you feeling?”

Bucky wriggles experimentally before wrapping his arms around Steve’s neck and nuzzles at the warm skin between them. His chest swells as he pulls in a deep breath, crushing it against Steve’s. “Mmm. ‘M good. Sleepy.”

How is he so goddamn perfect? Fondness curves Steve’s lips as he lowers Bucky onto his bed. “Alright, that’s good. You’re home, safe, in your apartment. Get some more rest, and I’ll check on you later, alright?”

Bucky makes a small contented sound as he pulls a pillow to his chest and brings his knees up under it, and Steve pulls the blanket up to remove the temptation to climb in next to him. He tucks the blanket around Bucky’s form tenderly, letting his palm slide over Bucky’s back before lifting it.

A sense of peace settles over Steve as he stares down at Bucky, watching his chest rise and fall slowly, listening to the soft breaths slip like sighs from between his lips. The tranquility breaks with the vibrating of his phone in his back pocket. He doesn’t need to look to know it’s Clint, knows an hour has probably passed in a minute while he’s been here captivated by Bucky. Again.

Ignoring his own phone, he lifts Bucky’s from his bedside table and flicks open the screen. No password, of course. Why would someone who doesn’t lock their door lock their phone? Steve sighs as he enters his number, but he hesitates when he gets to the name field. Should he put Doctor Rogers? Doctor Steve? It feels oddly formal after everything, but maybe he should try and take his professionalism where he can get it. He blows out a frustrated breath and types Steve Rogers before scrolling through Bucky’s other contacts just to be sure there are no other Steve’s listed. He wants Bucky to be able to reach him easily if he has an emergency or… well. He places the phone back in place, choosing not to look too closely at his motivations. He has enough guilt bubbling away inside him; he doesn’t need to add lying to himself to the list of things he needs to repent for.

He crouches beside the bed. “I’ve put my number in your phone, under Steve,” he murmurs. “Call me if you need me for anything, okay?” Unable to resist, he brushes his hands through Bucky’s hair. It’s such an intimate gesture, one he probably shouldn’t keep doing, but he loves the way the silken strands slip through his fingers, and the way it pulls pleased little hums out of Bucky’s throat. “You did so well today, Bucky. I’ll be back soon.”

It takes a herculean effort, but Steve lifts his hand and pushes to his feet. He places the apartment key beside the phone and turns away from the bed, knowing if he takes one more look at Bucky, he won’t be able to leave. He forces his feet to take him to the door.

The lock snaps into place with a twist of his fingers, and he pulls the door closed behind him, checking it’s secure twice before heading to the stairs leading up to his own apartment.

He pulls his phone from his pocket and taps out a reply to Clint: _Be there in 5._ He frowns down at the screen and backspaces, replacing the _5_ with _15_ before hitting send. He needs to get changed out of Clint's pants, and he also really, really needs to relieve a little pressure.

Clint can wait.

. . .

“Alright, spill.”

Steve pushes past Clint and steps into the apartment. “Hello to you, too.”

Clint closes the door then spins on the spot, crossing his arms over his chest. “Hi, Steve, how are you? Did you have a good day at work? That’s great. We’re going to circle back to why you’re raiding my emergency clothing stash and carrying unconscious patients out of the clinic, but we’re starting at the beginning because I have a feeling it’s all going connected to why you were sleeping outside that door.”

Each word that flows past Clint’s lips presses in on Steve and bursts bright and red under his cheeks. “It was—I was—that’s a patient’s apartment.” He’d had four flights of stairs taken very slowly to rehearse his explanation, but now that it’s come to it, he can’t remember a single sentence.

Clint’s brow furrows. “Are they alright?”

“He will be, yeah. He had really low TPT.”

“How low?”

Steve hesitates, bracing himself for the reaction he knows will follow. “Nine percent.”

“Nine—Fucking hell, Steve. Why didn’t you transfer him? The protocol—”

Indignation erupts inside Steve. “I _know_ the protocol, Clint, I’m the one who made it,” he snaps. “But he wouldn’t consent. He has past trauma that’s triggered by hospitals, so it was either treat him at the clinic or let him take his chances on the street. Would you have preferred me to toss him out on his ass?”

Clint holds his hands up in silent surrender. “No—I—of course not,” He huffs out a breath, the sympathy in his gaze diffusing Steve’s anger like a bucket of water. He can tell Clint is joining the dots between Bucky and his mom. “Okay, yeah, I would have done the same thing in your shoes, pal, I get it. But that still doesn’t explain you being outside his door this morning.”

“Oh, well…” Steve clears his throat.

“Please tell me you didn’t follow him home to keep an eye on him.”

“No. I, ah, I _brought_ him home.”

“You _what?”_

“He was really out of it,” Steve bristles, defensiveness sharpening his words. “I couldn’t exactly put him on the subway and hope for the best.”

Clint’s eyelids squeeze shut, and his mouth works silently. Steve has the distinct impression he’s counting to ten. Very slowly. “Okay. So, he thanked you for your chivalry by asking you to spend the night outside his door because…?”

“He didn’t ask me to stay,” Steve mumbles, his gaze sliding from Clint’s face to the retro coffee poster hanging on the wall over his right shoulder.

“But… he knew you were there, right?”

Steve bites his lip but doesn’t answer, watching Clint’s thoughts flicker across his face from his peripheral vision.

 _“Steve?_ Please tell me this isn’t the same guy you carried out of the clinic today.” At Steve’s continuing silence, Clint grabs him by the shoulders. “Oh, Christ. This isn’t treating a patient, Steve, it’s...I don’t know, fucking _stalking_. Why the hell _— ah, shit._ No. For the love of everything holy, please tell me this isn’t the omega you’ve been mooning over for the past month?”

Steve swallows roughly, opening his mouth but closing it again, unable to deny the truth.

“Oh, god.”

“It’s not like that, I swear, It’s—”

“Oh, shit!”

“He was supposed to be _your_ patient, but—”

“Jesus, fuck!”

“Clint, calm down!” Steve throws his hands up, pushing Clint’s from his shoulders. “It’s not like that.”

“Really? So, you’re telling me everything has been completely above board? You’ve treated him exactly the same as any other omega that comes to the clinic?”

Steve huffs, turning on his heel and pacing across the room, scrubbing a hand through his hair, curling his fingers into a fist and yanking on the strands. He welcomes the sharp pain in his scalp, needing something to bring him back down, something to draw his focus away from this itch flaring up under his skin again. “I know I fucked up, okay? I _know_. But I… I didn’t plan it, and I haven’t taken advantage of him, or, at least, fuck, I don’t _think_ I have. I just, he needed help, Clint, and, shit, it wasn’t supposed to be—I was going to ask him out, I mean, eventually, and he was supposed to be your patient, but you cut out early and I couldn’t—”

“Hey, whoa. You need to calm down.” Clint grabs Steve’s arm and tows him to the couch. “Sit down, breathe, use your words.”

Steve drops onto the chair with a groan. “It doesn’t matter. It’s all gone wrong. Everything is just... unraveling.” His anxiety keeps a steady beat, funneling from his body to the floor through his bouncing knee.

“Uh-huh,” Clint calls as he heads to the kitchen. “Life tends to do that.” There’s the sound of the fridge opening and bottle tops cracking, and a moment later, Clint presses a beer into Steve’s hand.

Steve frowns down at the bottle. “It’s one o’clock in the afternoon, Barton.”

“It’ll take the edge off, though, by the looks of you, you could down a whole slab and still be a wreck.” Clint gestures to Steve’s whole body, practically vibrating on the chair. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this keyed up.” He sinks onto the seat beside Steve and takes a long swallow from his own beer.

“Uh-huh. And what’s your excuse?”

“Friends don’t let friends drink alone,” Clint answers easily, lifting and tipping the bottle in a mock salute. “Now, about my clothes. Do I even wanna know?”

Steve shakes his head before taking a long pull from his beer. The bitter liquid washes over his tongue as his mind replays the events leading to the borrowed clothes like a film reel—Bucky begging for his touch, Bucky scenting him, licking him, coming for him, calling his name.

He tries to ignore the throbbing in his pants, the _persistent_ throbbing that had started when Bucky had stared up at him this morning with wide eyes and a stack of pancakes. Coming unexpectedly and untouched at the clinic hadn’t eased the pressure, nor had the two loads he’d wrung from his aching cock after leaving Bucky and fleeing to his own apartment. If anything, each release just seems to make it worse, like his body’s desires can’t be met by his hand, like he needs…

“Steve? You okay?”

Shifting on the couch, trying to find a comfortable spot despite knowing it’s a futile effort, Steve nods, working hard to unclench his fist from around the glass. Though he’s never felt this before, he knows the signs, and he’s pretty sure this itching under his skin, the heat scorching through his veins, and the all-encompassing, unflagging _need_ can only mean one thing. He shoves the thought away. No. He's not... he's just tired. His exhausted mind is just playing tricks on him.

“This guy’s really done a number on you, hasn’t he?” Clint’s voice isn’t unkind, but the truth of the words stick like barbs in Steve’s gut.

“I saw him the first night I moved in, you know. Sitting on the fire escape. He just looked so…” Steve sighs. “It was just a fascination at first. And then I kept seeing him, and then I smelled him…” He turns to Clint abruptly. “Could you smell him this morning?”

Clint shakes his head.

“At all?”

“Ehh, faintly, I guess. Nothing special, just smelled like standard omega heat to me.”

Steve gapes at him before snapping his mouth shut and shaking his head dismissively. “Yeah, well, you’re bonded.”

“Uh-huh. I’m bonded, Steve, I don’t have anosmia.”

“Trust me, if you weren’t bonded, you’d know what I’m talking about. I can’t even explain it. It’s the sweetest thing I’ve ever smelled; makes my mouth water and my fucking kn—uh, I mean,” Steve breaks off, cheeks burning. He drags his hand down over his face with a groan. “Fuck. It’s making me crazy. He’s got blockers in his system, and I swear I can still smell him.”

“Jesus, Steve. To be so sensitive to his scent, that sounds an awful lot like…”

“I know,” Steve interjects quickly before Clint can say the words out loud. _Bonding sickness._

“How can you want to bond with someone you don’t even know?”

Steve turns the beer bottle around in his hands, wistfully, watching the condensation roll slowly down the glass like glistening tears. He’s been asking himself that exact question since he’d put two and two together. He knows it’s probably just his fantasies getting out of hand—the more worked up he gets about Bucky, the more Bucky seems to affect him, and the more worked up he becomes. It’s a never-ending cycle. Clint’s right, though, he doesn’t know Bucky, not really, but it feels like... like he’s _meant_ to. It feels like his heart knows Bucky’s already, and somehow that’s enough.

“Do you believe in soulmates?” Steve asks quietly.

Clint takes a very long, very calculated drink from his own beer before answering. “Is that how you feel about James?”

“Bucky,” Steve corrects automatically.

“The form—”

“Yeah, I know, but he prefers to be called Bucky.” Steve ignores the warming of his cheeks at Clint’s raised brow. “I don’t know. I’m used to being around omegas in heat. You know how it is, it’s in the job description. But I’ve never reacted like this to anyone, _ever_. It’s like he triggers something inside me that doesn’t even exist until he’s near me, and then, he’s all I can think of, the only thing I want. The whole world shrinks down, turns hazy until the only thing left in focus is _him._ ”

“Steve, man, that’s… intense.”

The confession has the tingling heat creeping under Steve’s skin again. An itch he can’t scratch. “I don’t know what to do.”

“There’s not much you _can_ do, buddy. You either lock that shit down and continue to treat him, or you pass his case on, and after waiting an appropriate amount of time—so that you don’t come off as a total creeper who just saw him coming during his procedure and decided that you wanted him on your knot instead of the machine’s—you ask him out.”

Steve _wants_ to ask Bucky out, but the memory of Bucky laid out on the exam table blooms in his mind, of that perfect body writhing as his pleasure built, the soft gasps and needy moans spilling over his lips. Steve’s gut twists tightly as the image shifts, picturing his beautiful, sweet omega calling someone else’s name as he comes, with another doctor—maybe another alpha—standing above him, watching him, hands-on Bucky’s body, sliding into him, fucking him…

Steve doesn’t realize he’s growling until Clint’s fingers are digging into his shoulder, and he jerks toward his best friend, body coiled tight, ready to fight for his omega... who isn’t _his_ at all.

“Whoa, Steve, snap out of it. Jesus, man. You’re flooding the room with enough pheromones to burn _my_ nose. Cut it out, yeah? I do not need a hoard of scent-struck omegas clawing at my door.”

“Shit, I’m sorry.” Steve winces, struggling to chase the image out of his head, and his reaction along with it.

“You know, maybe it’s not the worst idea for you to switch out his file. I can—”

 _“No!”_ Steve barks before clearing his throat and giving Clint an apologetic look. “No, thanks. I’ve got it. I can be professional—” he ignores the way Clint’s eyebrows jump up to his hairline “—it’s only for a few more sessions, anyway. It’s fine. I’m fine. I’m not some teenage pup in rut; I can control myself.” At Clint’s smirk, Steve frowns, biting back the irrational urge to snarl at his friend and wipe the smirk off himself.” Fuck you, I _can.”_ He downs the rest of his beer, then props it on the table with a shaky hand before pushing to his feet. “Listen, I’ve gotta go, but, uh, thanks for the talk and the beer.”

“Steve...” Clint looks up at him, all traces of earlier amusement are gone. "This... whatever it between you two has to stop. You're his doctor. While you're treating him that's _all_ you can be. You understand that, right?"

“No, I know. I promise you won’t find me sleeping on any more patient’s doorsteps.”

“That’s not the same as saying you’re not going to sleep on his doorstep again,” Clint comments dryly.

“I promise I won’t sleep outside his door,” Steve calls over his shoulder distractedly, running his nails over his thighs.

“Steve, _are_ you okay, buddy? You seem a little… off.”

“No, I’m good, I’m good. I’m just tired.” Steve throws a look over his shoulder, forcing a smile to counter the strain in his voice.

Clint’s eyes narrow. “You sure that’s all it is?”

“Yep. All good. I just need to crash for at least a solid twelve hours, which I’m going to do right now.” Steve raises his hand, signaling his goodbye without a backward glance. “I’ll catch you tomorrow.” He can still feel Clint’s assessing gaze as he slips through the door and pulls it closed behind him.

He takes the stairs to his apartment quickly, two at a time, holding his breath as he rushes past Bucky’s. He fumbles with his lock, but after three tries, he’s inside his apartment and striding to the bathroom, to the bottle of sedatives tucked away on the top shelf. He washes two down with a cupped hand full of water straight from the sink before shedding his jeans and leaving them in the hamper.

Everything is worse when you’ve gone without sleep. It’s a lesson he’d learned in med school, and he’s hoping, god how he’s hoping his current state is borne from exhaustion and not… He doesn’t let his brain consider the other possibility, walking to his room quickly, shucking his shirt before sinking to his bed and shoving his legs between the cool sheets, sighing at the feel of them against his heated skin.

He’ll be fine in the morning. He just needs a good night’s sleep.

. . .

Steve’s stomach cramps, his knot filling so quickly that his entire dick feels like it’s on fire, and he jerks awake. Doubling over, grunting in pain, he reaches out wildly, grabbing the railing to stop his freefall face-first into the stairs.

Panic unleashes a flood of adrenaline into his veins, his heart picking up speed in his chest and his cock matching pace, throbbing painfully. His knot feels like it’s going to fucking explode as the telltale scent of sugar finally registers in his buzzing brain.

His head jerks to the side, eyes locking on the familiar door, whining softly at the familiar scent flooding under it. The urge to run to it, kick it down, seek out the source and bury his nose in it, his tongue, his knot, is almost too strong to fight.

Steve blinks at the wood, too close in front of him for his eyes to focus on. His hands are wrapped around the door frame, hard enough to splinter the edges. _How…_ he shakes his head. He hadn’t moved… had he?

Fear is ice burning through his veins as understanding crystallizes in his mind. He _almost…_ and he could have _hurt_ Bucky. Staggering away from the door, Steve twists, eyes locking on the stairs—the only thing between him and safety.

 _Bucky’s_ safety.

Trembling legs stumble but don’t slow, driving up, propelling him forward, dragging his body away even as his mind demands he turn back. His doorknob twists easily in his palm, and he’s through the door, only noticing he’s dressed in nothing but black boxer briefs once he kicks it closed behind him.

His whole body feels like it’s on fire, sheathed in a layer of sweat, and his musky scent is pouring from his skin. His cock is leaking a steady stream of precome as his knot, heavy and stretched wide, pulsates in time with his racing heart, and the only thing he wants is to bury himself to the hilt inside Bucky.

_He’s in rut._

Chest tightening at the admission, Steve fights through the primal instincts trying desperately to pull him under. Every second that passes, he can feel the need getting stronger, increasing its hold on him. He needs to be smart about this… while he still can.

He runs to the bathroom.

Flinching as he catches a glimpse of himself in the medicine cabinet’s mirrored door—of his flushed cheeks and wild, glassy-eyes—he jerks it open. After grabbing the small bottle from the second shelf, he tears out of the room, not bothering to shut the cabinet behind him.

The ache in his cock is almost intolerable, but he can’t—not yet…

Skidding to a stop at the front door, he yanks it open with one hand as he thumbs the lid from the bottle with the other. Peppermint, sharp and astringent, floods the air as he douses his door in the scent blocker. Though the oil is designed to be diffused, neutralizing the pheromones in the air, it’s the best plan his rut-lust addled brain can conceive. He just has to hope it works.

The glass bottle slips from his sweaty hand, hitting the floor and cracking, spilling the remaining contents as it rolls out onto the landing. Restraint failing, Steve ignores it and steps back over the threshold and pushes the door shut behind him, already hooking a thumb over the waistband of his briefs and shoving the fabric down his legs.

He kicks them away into the kitchen’s general direction, hissing as his cock leaps free of its confines. He throws a hand out, leaning heavily against the wall, letting it take his weight as he wraps a hand around himself, groaning at the pleasure. His hand rides his cock furiously, sliding smoothly on the slick mess coating his skin. Head falling to his chest, he fucks his fist, his hips jerking forward into the movement, instinct telling him to thrust and fuck and _take._ But the tight embrace of his hand isn’t enough, isn’t what his body craves, what he needs, and he whines, high in the back of his throat as he squeezes his eyes closed.

_Fuck._

The phantom scent of cotton candy teases his nose, pushing a new stream from his cockhole. His body wants _Bucky,_ not his own fucking hand. Wants to sink into that wet heat, ravage that tight little hole until Bucky is sobbing and clawing at him and shattering apart on his cock.

Blood pounds in his head, the rhythmic thumping matching the agony pulsing lower as he imagines it—that pretty ass dripping sugar syrup, making a mess of them both, clenching around him, begging for his knot, milking it like such a good boy; Bucky taking his seed deep into his belly... _taking his pups._

He growls as the thought burns through his veins, tightening the molten heat coiling in his belly. He’s so fucking close to the peak, to _relief._ He sucks in a ragged gasp. The air flows over his tongue as sweet as sin and his eyes fly open as he jerks his head toward the door.

Bucky is standing, trembling in the doorway, wide-eyes locked on Steve’s cock.

Steve grabs his knot, gouging his fingers deep into the swollen flesh, jolting as pain screams through his body, knocking him back from the knife-edge of pleasure. Primal urges roar within him, _take, knot, breed, breed, breed_ , but Steve opens his mouth and grinds out the hardest two words he’s ever uttered in his entire life.

_“Get. Out.”_


	9. Natural Remedies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. This is just pretty much straight up gay porn. There are very few sentences of redeeming quality and hardly any character development or thinky thoughts that aren't: MUST FUUUCCCK NOW. I thought Bucky's POV of Rut Night was a swamp of smut, this is... man, this is a fucking endless sea of it. Please be sure you have some kind of floatation device and have had all your smut booster shots before wading in. Some kind of flippers and goggles are also advisable. 
> 
> Oh! And this checks off my ~~Orgasm denial square~~ Scent Marking square (changing it) on my ask kink bingo. \o/
> 
> ii. I do want to apologise for keeping you waiting for this chapter. If you stuck around (or came back) I wanna say thank you! When I wrote this chapter from Bucky’s POV, I didn’t realize how extremely difficult it would be to do from Steve’s POV. In Rut Mode, he *starts* at 10. There’s no building, it’s just on like Donkey Kong, and it’s *constant* and that is sort of exhausting to write. Luckily--for me, you and Steve--he does get those moments where the intensity breaks, eventually, and we all get to take a breath before we’re ramping back up. 
> 
> iii. Many, many, many thanks for all the love and support on tumblr and the little support group on discord, your encouragement and eagerness is all that kept me from fade to blacking this damn thing (and just jumping immediately to waking up in bed with Bucky). So… Cheers for that!
> 
> iv. This chapter sees a few new tags, many of which I am shamelessly stealing from LoveInTheTimeOfFandom. Please check if you have smut allergies! (feel free to ignore if you don't want to be spoiled. You can just skip to the story!)
> 
> #(consensual)Somnophilia only now you like it!! #Prayer Circle for Steve's Knot (and we should probably start one for Bucky’s asshole, too). Orgasm delay/denial, pet name overload, D/s undertones during sex, coming dry, begging, accidental fisting kink activated, almost but not quite breathplay (not much worse than was in Bucky’s POV). 
> 
> v. As always, feel free to leave your words on my words (they make me smiley emoji) or come play with me on tumblr (@thewaythatwerust).

Steve’s mind is racing. How is Bucky here? Why didn’t he see him? Hear him? _Smell him?_ He sure as hell can smell that syrupy-sweet scent _now_ ; he’s fucking choking on it.

The whine slides up his throat and over his lips—high, desperate. It rides the rush of spit surging up from under his tongue, his mouth actually watering at the delicious scent of Bucky’s fresh slick. He tightens the stranglehold on his knot as his cock jerks in his grasp, knowing the wetness slipping between those beautiful cheeks is a reaction to _him_ —Bucky’s body making itself ready _for him.  
_  
_“Leave!”_ The order roars from Steve’s throat before he slams his jaw shut, fighting the urge to reel it back in, tell Bucky to stay, to climb onto his knot and never leave.

Bucky startles, the shout slamming into him like a physical blow, knocking him backward on unsteady legs. “I, uh, I’m s-sorry, I just—I th-thought…” His eyes don’t leave Steve’s cock, and shit, Steve can feel the gaze searing into his skin as Bucky stumbles backward. A little gasp shocks from his throat as his back collides with the door, bumping it closed.  
  
Without fresh air or blockers sneaking in from outside the door, the room turns oppressive. His own scent and sweat and Bucky’s candied arousal are stifling, filling his lungs as effectively as water, threatening to drown him.

Steve barely registers the feral sound tearing from his chest as his own, but Bucky’s light eyes go dark and wide, his mouth dropping open in a pretty _‘o’,_ and _oh, fuck..._ Steve’s fingers stab tighter into his own flesh as it swells and throbs in his hold. What would it be like to have those perfect lips around his cock? Dripping moans and spit, stretched so wide they’re splitting, struggling to wrap around his knot as Steve throat-fucks Bucky until he’s gagging on it, until warm spunk is rushing into his belly and spilling down his chin...

“I could leave or—” his throat bobs as he swallows thickly “—or I c-could stay if you w-want me to...” Bucky’s voice is quiet, trembling as much as his body, but it slices through Steve’s fantasy and lances him clear through the chest.  
  
What the fuck is Steve supposed to say to that? That he wants—oh god, _how_ he wants—but he can’t.

He... _can’t.  
_  
Soft carpet crushing under his bare feet registers in his mind, making panic flare at the base of his skull. If he goes to Bucky, if he gets too close, he won’t be able to pull away… to _stop._ But his hips meet the back of his favorite recliner, and he hisses as textured fabric rubs at the smooth skin of his cock.

_“Bucky,_ you can’t be here. You need to go.”  
  
Bucky takes a hesitant step forward. Uncertainty pulls at his brows, tugging them down. “B-but you’re in rut…”  
  
A flash of pink darts between those perfect lips, peeking out, teasing him, and Steve plants his hands on the headrest of the chair, gripping it hard enough to make his fingers _ache,_ but it’s nothing on the ache in his cock, begging for his hand—or Bucky’s sweet little tongue burying into his drooling slit.

Steve’s hips jerk against the chair involuntarily before he rolls them again with purpose, chasing the biting friction. Bucky’s gaze shadows his movements, but he can’t stop—the pleasure is taking the edge off, a distraction to his desperation, but he knows it won’t hold for long.  
  
And neither will he.  
  
He needs to get Bucky out of here so he can collapse into bed and bury his face in candy-scented sheets and fuck his fist until he passes out—until he’s covered every inch of Bucky’s fragrance with his own musk.

“It’s fine. It’s no worse than your heat. It’ll pass. A few days, and I’ll be fine.” The words scrape from Steve’s throat. He knows, somewhere in the back of his mind, it’s the truth--even though every second is an eternity, and surviving a single day seems impossible.  
  
“But… wouldn’t it be quicker, _easier_ with me?” Bucky’s face pinches tight as he stares down at his hands, twisting wrinkles into his shirt with his fingers. The fabric pulls taut, the neckband stretching down, exposing an enticing V of smooth skin and a glimpse of sharp clavicle.  
  
Steve can imagine licking a hot stripe over the jutting bone, sucking a bruise into the hollow of Bucky’s throat. His hips roll, grinding against the chair, his fingers digging deeper into it as his control slips away. “I… I can’t—”  
  
“It doesn’t have to mean anything. I can—I can help you… scratch your… itch. Make you feel good. Help you like you helped me.”  
  
_Oh, Christ._ Steve ruts against the chair with purpose, but he can’t stop—if he doesn’t relieve some pressure soon, he’s going to cry or die... maybe both.  
  
“You need to get out, Bucky. Right now. I’m not—I can’t…” His brain stalls, unable to think of why. _Why_ can’t he take Bucky? He’s here, ready and willing, and it would be so easy just to give in, take what’s on offer, and take and take and _take_. But, no… He shakes his head frantically, and a single ray of reason pierces the rut-lust. _“I’m your doctor,"_ he chokes out. It sounds pathetic to his own ears, so small and meaningless in the face of the storm of desire raging inside him.  
  
“Oh.” Bucky nods softly but edges closer, undeterred.  
  
Steve’s gaze falls to Bucky’s feet, watching them inch closer, closer, until finally, he stops—anchoring himself in place with pale toes curling into dark carpet. His eyes climb up Bucky’s body, to the dark, loose sweats hanging from narrow hips, and his cock throbs remembering the delights hidden beneath.

The rut has not only increased his urges, but bolstered his senses—he can smell the salty beads peppering Bucky’s hairline, and each fresh wave of arousal as it drips from his body. It’s calling to Steve, tempting him, that little pink hole so wet and needy. But it’s not the only thing wanting. Bucky is hard; Steve can see the line of Bucky’s neglected cock straining against its fabric confines. Is he throbbing, too? Leaking? Is the perfect, sweet omega soaking those damned sweatpants from both holes?

The whine slides up his throat as his hand drops to wrap around himself, and _oh_ , he should have been doing this from the start. Hand on his cock, eyes on Bucky, picturing the mess he’s making under those pants— _for him_.

He can’t _have_ the omega, but maybe… maybe Bucky will spread those pretty cheeks nice and wide, let him lap at the dripping hole while he empties his cock, milking out every last drop of come while gorging himself on Bucky’s slick.

Steve’s grip tightens and moves faster, the wet sounds of pleasure obscene in the quiet room, but he can’t still his hand. Bucky’s dark eyes lock on where Steve’s arm disappears down behind the chair, hooded and hungry, biting down on that pretty lip again, and oh, shit, he’s so close—the pressure building in his gut, in his knot. Fuck, he’s gonna come with Bucky watching him, head filled with thoughts of Bucky riding his face, feeding him that sweet syrup while grinding down on his tongue, gasping and coming—and could he make Bucky squirt? Steve can almost feel the rush of liquid gushing into his mouth, down his throat, spilling over his face—  
  
“Well, then... y-you’re fired.”  
  
The firm words knock Steve back from the brink, his hand stilling on his straining cock. He stares at Bucky incredulously. _“What?”_

Bucky squares his shoulders, lifting his head and staring at Steve with determined eyes. He pushes out the words quickly, and they only tremble a little around the edges. “You’re fired. Now you’re not my doctor. I can make an appointment with Dr. Barton in the morn—”  
  
_“No!”_ Steve roars immediately, wincing as Bucky stumbles back a step, almost tripping on his own feet. A shiver wracks his lean frame, and Steve traces its path from his shoulders down. Bucky’s chest rises and falls more quickly as he wraps his arms across it. The thought of Clint standing over Bucky as he gasps and shudders and comes apart _— no._ Possessiveness tightens his chest. “No one else can see you like that, _no one,”_ he growls darkly.

“Then maybe…” Bucky’s throb bobs around the audible swallow. “M-maybe we could help each other. You can rut into me, knot me, fill me—give me _your_ seed instead.”

“Jesus, oh, _fuck!_ ” Bucky offering Steve the one thing he craves the most has the molten heat of his belly surging into his cock and spilling over. He lifts his hand away, gripping the headrest, holding on for dear life as he fucks against the chair frantically. His whole body seizes painfully, spasming as his orgasm slams into him, pushing grunts and growls through gritted teeth. Colors spark and dance behind his eyelids, pulsing in time with his cock, spitting come onto the chair as he continues to grind against it, soaking the fabric. The world shrinks and falls away until nothing exists but the waves of pleasure crashing through him.

When the ecstasy turning his muscles rigid finally ebbs, Steve slumps forward, dropping his head low, sucking ragged gasps into his burning lungs. Sweat tickles down his neck, forging wet paths he yearns to feel Bucky trek with his tongue.  
  
But the lull that usually follows satisfied carnal cravings doesn’t come; the desire vibrating under his skin stronger than ever. Steve swallows down a frustrated whine. His fist is capable of delivering empty pleasure only, a gulp of air before he’s drowning again. It’s not enough; he needs more. Needs...

_”Please,_ Steve.”

Bucky’s voice is barely a whisper, and Steve lifts his head to find the omega on the floor, ass planted between spread thighs and bent knees, all crushing into the thick carpet. The once light eyes are dark and imploring, staring up at him with so much longing and reverence like he alone can sate the desires rearing through the beautiful body before him.  
  
Steve’s heart aches to deny him. He wants to spend hours taking Bucky apart with his fingers and mouth before claiming the omega’s body slowly... tenderly. It’s what Bucky deserves… and what Steve absolutely cannot give him today. Biological urges are overriding his body’s desires for respite, his barely-flagging erection twitching as it fattens back up, and his knot—not even close to empty—is refilling, throbbing under the pressure.

He doesn’t have _tender_ in him today.

“I’m sorry, Bucky, I just… I can’t.”

_“Why?”_ Bucky’s question is a pitiful whine, filled with frustration and confusion, and Steve’s alpha instincts rail at not being able to tend to the omega’s needs.

“Because I’m— _fuck_. Have you ever been with an alpha in rut before?” He grinds the words out, not sure he wants to know the answer. But his heart sings at the small shake of Bucky’s head. No, of course, he hasn’t. Those wide eyes are looking up at him with such innocence, nibbling at that damned sinful lower lip, turning it cherry red. He’s so fucking sweet. Bucky has no idea what he’s asking for. No one has wrecked him with rut, and Steve can’t be the one to do it. “It’s not—I need, Bucky—I just _need_ , and I’ll take. Hard and fast, rough and dirty, I’ll take what I need, again and again, with no thought to you, and I could—” A dark image tears through his mind--his hand tightening around Bucky’s throat, hammering into the omega’s body as if he owns it, no concern but for chasing his own pleasure; Bucky choking and crying, scratching at his hand… Steve swallows the acid burning up his throat. “—I could hurt you. I won’t want to, but if you let me start, baby, I can’t—I won’t be able to stop.”

The words taste sour in his mouth, but he can’t hide the growl punching from his throat at the scent of Bucky reacting, fresh slick soaking through his sweatpants—the thick fabric doing nothing to dull the pheromones steaming from his body.  
  
Bucky whimpers, his hips undulating where he sits, lean muscles shifting gracefully as he grinds down against the carpet. “I don’t want you to stop,” Bucky says breathlessly.

_”No,_ Bucky. You don’t know what you’re saying. You don’t understand.” _I will use your body for my pleasure only, for as long as I need; however I need._ The words stick in Steve’s throat, turned too dry, too tight watching Bucky push up on his knees and scramble forward.

The black sweats catch on the carpet, tugging down enough to see the strip of pale skin, dark hair… and nothing else. Steve stumbles backward, away from Bucky as he approaches, afraid of what he’ll do once Bucky’s within reach. Rut horror stories thunder through his head, of alphas unable to stop, taking too hard, taking too much. He _can’t_ do that to Bucky. But the urges screaming through his body are getting stronger, his restraint weakening, and soon, he knows he'll be powerless to resist.

The harsh thump of his back connecting with the wall shocks a hiss from him as panic flares anew _— Bucky is not stopping._ The throbbing pressure in his knot isn’t eased by the hand he wraps around it, just sends a thin stream of clear fluid running down his skin. The buzzing in his veins is echoed in his head, taking over. Bucky’s scent is tormenting his heightened senses, but wet breaths pulled in through his mouth provide no relief—he can taste the sugared scent on the air.

He squeezes his eyes shut, grasping desperately for a shred of control. He’s wanted this for so long, wanted _Bucky_ for so long—since the first time he’d laid eyes on him that first night, outside on the fire escape. That want had shifted into need at the clinic, making Bucky feel good, wringing the pleasure from his body again and again. And now, Bucky’s here, on his fucking knees, _begging for it_ , and Steve has to deny them both.

The flames of lust scorching over his body burn hotter, and Steve’s sure somehow, he’s in hell—being consumed by the heat of his own lust, having the one thing he most desires torturing him with pleasure he can never claim.

He wants Bucky, but not like _this_.

Steve's eyes snap open as warm hands wrapping around his. He groans at the sight of Bucky, now shirtless, staring up at him through dark lashes. The submissive display makes his alpha blood boil.

The wet stripe painted over a plush lower lip is the only forewarning before Bucky’s pitching forward, moving close, and scenting him in the most intimate way. Steve makes a choking sound as his breath catches, his brain forgetting how to fucking breathe, wholly consumed with the hot puffs of air pushed out through Bucky’s mouth kissing the wet mess of his cock. The gentle pressure of Bucky’s nose nuzzling at his knot, pulling in his raw scent has Steve lightheaded, the room tilting dangerously around him, but then—

—then Bucky’s _licking_ him.

The steel of his bones turns molten, and he sways, his knees threatening to buckle completely as Bucky’s tongue darts out, lapping at his cock, lifting the milky fluid from flushed skin. Steve’s mouth drops open wordlessly, finally sucking a shuddering breath into his aching lungs, watching Bucky taste him, _clean_ him, hungry little noises spilling from Bucky’s lips as his eager tongue searches for Steve over and over.

The sound punched from Steve’s chest is loud, _desperate_ , more a shout than a moan as his cock jerks under the attention, a stream of fresh precome spilling over. Bucky chases it, catching it on his tongue and dragging it from knot to crown. He swallows it down with a whimper before straining forward, pressing a sloppy, open-mouth kiss to the swollen knot, and Steve’s lungs empty on a roar.

“Oh, fuck. No—stop, stop!” The soft strands of Bucky’s hair slip between Steve’s fingers, but he tightens them into fists and yanks Bucky away more harshly than he intends. His arms shake under the effort not to drag Bucky close again and guide his cock between those willing lips.

Bucky strains forward heedless of the hold, making pitiful, frustrated sounds high in his throat. A sharp note of desperation pierces the sugar fog. Steve’s alpha instincts _preen_ before turning sour, roiling distressingly at how _wrong_ it feels to deny an omega, _his omega_ what he needs. Because… _oh._ Bucky didn’t have his treatment today. He’s still...

“Baby, no... we can’t, you’re still in heat.”

Bucky whines and strains forward again, mouth open, tongue stretching out. The anguished sound hits Steve in the gut as understanding unfurls lazily in his mind. His cock jumps and drips as the awareness spreads through him. Not all omegas are blessed with an oral fixation—desperate to have their mouths filled as much as their ass—but Bucky, it seems, is perfect all across the board.

Steve can see how much his sweet boy wants it, can _smell_ it, and fuck he wants to give it to him. But he’s in no state to put Bucky’s needs above his—he can’t settle into his chair, thighs spread, and feed Bucky his cock, can’t run his hands through that silky hair, whispering filthy praises and let Bucky take what he wants, what he needs, can’t let him suckle until he’s content and his belly’s full, and Steve is sated and empty.  
  
Bucky strains against the hold once more before huffing out a frustrated breath. “I know I’m still in heat, Steve,” he whines, “but I’d want your knot even if I wasn’t.”

Steve clutches at the single remaining shard of reason he can find as all other shattered fragments of control fall away, sinking into the darkness. “Bucky, no. That’s not… You’re in heat. The protein couldn’t get you pregnant, but I can.”  
  
The dark hair pulled taut in his grip finally relaxes as Bucky stops struggling. Dark lashes drift to pink cheeks, and Steve’s heart clenches painfully. Bucky understands, and any second he’s going to scramble to his feet and run from the room, taking Steve’s only hope of salvation with him.

His heart has thundered against his ribs a thousand times before Bucky’s lashes lift… but there’s nothing but determination and desire glittering in those beautiful eyes.

“Is that what you’ve been thinking about? All alone up here while you touch yourself?” Bucky’s voice is silk, sliding from his throat and caressing Steve’s skin. “Been thinking about me? Thinking about putting pups in me?”  
  
Roaring fills Steve’s ears, and he’s not sure if it’s his blood or his voice, but he doesn’t care. His hands are on Bucky, grabbing at him greedily, sliding over his back and tucking under his ass—fingers digging deep into soft flesh.

A gasp startles from Bucky’s lips when Steve hoists him off the carpet and into his arms, but it’s swallowed up in Steve’s groan as he crushes the smaller man to his chest. _Bed_ , the desperate voice screams inside him, but it’s too far, he can’t wait.  
  
The kitchen table is closer.

The thrill of possessiveness that always steals through him when he has Bucky in his arms comes again, but it’s stronger, more urgent now. It feels so _right_.

His body and mind are a riot of contrasts: eagerness and reluctance battling for dominance as he lifts the arm from Bucky’s back to sweep the clutter from the table, greed and reticence warring as he watches the shiver ripple through Bucky—warm skin meeting cool wood turning it pebbled, and dusky nipples tightening, raising up, begging for his touch.  
  
The thump of hands on the table splits the heavy quiet in the room as he plants himself above the omega, staking his claim—his naked body crowding against Bucky’s partially covered one. Arousal-soaked fabric scrubs over his cock, and beneath, the hard line of Bucky’s erection straining up to meet him.

Bucky whimpers at the contact. The sweet scent is thicker now, rising not only from the drenched fabric but spilling from his skin, bathing his body, and Steve can’t help but chase it—his nose gliding effortlessly on the sweat-slicked column of Bucky’s neck.

The skin stretches, moving under him as Bucky arches, baring his throat. The submissive gesture pulls a low moan from Steve’s chest, deep and greedy as he takes what Bucky’s offering. Nostrils flaring, he traces the curve, the scent intensifying as he draws closer, until finally, he’s burnishing his nose over the thin skin hiding that special gland.

He breathes in Bucky’s essence, sweet and earthy, floral and _pure_. It’s intoxicating, filling his lungs and fogging his head. Steve’s never felt anything like _this_ , never smelled something so perfect and irresistible, almost like the scent was designed just for him, like _Bucky_ was made just for him.

Bucky’s cock jerks against their joined bellies stickily as Steve scents him, a small gasp of breath escaping those lips like a prayer. It breaks a dam somewhere deep inside Steve, something dark and powerful. He lifts himself off Bucky, pulling away just enough to find those beautiful eyes, arms trembling under the overpowering urge to give in and _take._

“If you don’t want this, you need to tell me, now. You’ve been driving me crazy all week, the scent of you—fuck, but you smell sweet. And then you’re licking up on me, needing me, calling out for me when you come.” The realization that he could have that again, Bucky calling out for him, shuddering apart on his cock is too much. He chases the trail he’d scented earlier with his tongue, the salt changing to candied musk when he laps at the hidden scent gland. The taste explodes in his mouth, sending spikes of pleasure through his body, and he ruts against Bucky’s covered cock, adding to the mess soaking the fabric. He can’t remember ever wanting _anything_ in his life more than he wants to be _inside_ Bucky. “If you want to leave, you best do it now, because once I taste you, once I’m inside, I ain’t gonna be able to stop until your pretty little belly is full of my come, and you’re crying on my knot.”

The confession is thick on his tongue. He knows he should be more gentle—his words, his actions—but Bucky comes alive under him, writhing, trying to lift his hips and grind his pretty little dick against Steve’s harder, and it makes him want to let the filth drip from his tongue right into Bucky’s ear.  
  
_”Please,_ Steve. I want it, _please.”  
_  
Steve wrenches back with a growl, gripping Bucky’s pants in tight fists and yanking them down, removing the last obstacle to his prize. The unfettered scent burns in Steve’s lungs before they empty on a reedy whine. Slick drips off Bucky’s skin onto the polished wood of his table, and dueling desires splinter inside him—wanting to hunt the liquid, lift it from the wood and bury his tongue in the source, but his cock is a heavy weight, throbbing painfully with each thumping beat of his heart, and Steve can’t wait... he’s waited too long already.

His fingers dig into Bucky’s waist just long enough to lift and flip him, naked chest landing on wood with a hard smack, pert ass jutting up like a damned dessert ready to be feasted upon. Bucky’s soft gasp barrels into a moan as Steve takes the omega’s hips and drags them back, forcing his knees to fold under him. The pretty pink hole winks into view as Steve grips Bucky’s trembling thighs and shoves them apart impatiently.

His movements are rough and jerky, and he knows he should slow down, be gentle, but his body is running purely on raw instinct now.

In his most base fantasies, he’s dreamed of having Bucky like this, head down, ass up, _presenting_ —offering himself up to his alpha, wet and wanting. Steve pushes a hand down between Bucky’s shoulder blades, a silent command to _stay_ , and like the good boy he is, Bucky whimpers, sliding his palms along the polished surface until they’re extended above his head, fingers gripping the edge of the table tightly. Steve hums proudly, fingers trailing over the ridged line of Bucky’s spine, dragging it back down over the enticing curve of his ass.  
  
Even in the low light, the slick clinging to Bucky’s skin is glistening, thick and translucent, flowing freely out of his body now. With one hand spreading the perfect cheeks apart, Steve slides two fingers into the puckered ring, three knuckles deep. Bucky opens for him beautifully. The greedy hole sucks at him, trying to pull him deeper.

How the fuck is he so _achingly_ exquisite?

The heat inside Bucky’s body soaks into Steve’s skin and ignites a fire under it. He draws his hand free, slowly, reluctantly, the thick nectar clinging to him as he lifts them and slides them into his mouth.  
  
After craving it for so long, the taste of Bucky on his tongue has white noise rushing through his veins, making his blood _sing_. It’s his new favorite flavor.  
  
Precome pours from his cock as he laves his own fingers. The candied taste of Bucky’s need teasing his tongue and the sugared scent filling his lungs overwhelms him, and he’s _gone_. He drags his fingers from his mouth once every trace is gone, only to shove them back inside Bucky’s hole with a groan.  
  
“Fuck, I knew you’d taste sweet, sugar. Could make a feast of you, all that sugar syrup running down your thighs, but I can’t wait, sweetheart, I’m sorry, I can’t.”

Steve turns his wrist and spreads his fingers, retreating just enough to thrust another in beside. Bucky’s ass is so responsive, stretching around him gorgeously, glistening liquid rolling down his skin like tears, pattering onto the table. Steve adds another finger, squeezing the meat of one round cheek with his free hand encouragingly as Bucky whimpers and moans.

Steve’s head is fuzzy, his whole world turning hazy but for Bucky—Bucky, he can see _perfectly_. So sweet, taking everything he's given. Steve rubs his thumb over the now-smooth rim, marveling at how perfectly Bucky’s ass has swallowed down his four fingers. He could press in deeper, feed Bucky his whole hand, have that slick ring of muscle stretch and constrict until it’s quivering around his wrist. He could stroke and pet Bucky’s body from the inside, squeezing at that sweet spot inside him that makes him writhe and scream.

Steve’s cock twitches, throbbing _painfully_ , a bolt of heat thrusting him to the precipice. “I, oh fuck. I can’t—I need—I need inside, need to be inside you, baby, can’t wait anymore.” He yanks his hand free from Bucky’s body without warning and digs wet fingers into Bucky’s ass, spreading him wider still as he lines up his cock and slides home in one hard drive—only his knot, swollen and heavy, left on the wrong side of Bucky’s body.

_“Oh, Jesus, oh, fuck.”_

Bucky’s ass struggles to take him in, so much thicker than his fingers, the rim stretched obscenely wide, flushed an angry red. Steve rakes his nails down Bucky’s back as he grinds his knot against the leaking hole. Bucky’s so fucking tight. It’s heavenly, it’s _home_ , and he never wants to be anywhere but buried knot-deep inside Bucky’s body.

But the instinct to move is overpowering, and impulsively he draws back, drinking in the sight of Bucky’s ring distended, clinging to him on the slow drag. Steve can’t bear to pull out completely—stopping when the head of his cock is tugging at the band of muscle from the inside, making it bulge and quiver around him.

_“S-Steve!”_

Bucky’s cry spurs him on, and he snaps his hips forward, sinking deep before drawing out and slamming forward again. Each thrust is harder, _deeper,_ Steve straining to push his full knot past the struggling rim and into the bliss of Bucky’s body. He can’t think, only _feel,_ taking what he needs from Bucky over and over, the savage thrusts work him closer, _closer_. Every breath is a grunt, a moan, a whine—relentless noises punched from his chest each time he carves out a little more space, pushing soft whimpers and gasps from Bucky’s throat as he takes him so fucking deep Steve feels like he’s fucking right into Bucky’s belly.  
  
Bucky jolts on the table as Steve’s pace increases. Long driving thrusts becoming uncoordinated short stabs, Bucky's tortured rim teasing the crown of his cock with every retreat, and he’s right there, so close...

His hands slide over Bucky’s skin, slick with sweat, wrapping around that tight belly and lifting, bringing Bucky’s back flush against his chest. Using Bucky’s bent legs for leverage, Steve curves over Bucky, flinging one arm out, hand landing hard on the table, holding them steady as he ruts into his omega with single-minded focus. He strains against the inflamed skin, his knot meeting too much resistance to slip inside.

“Bucky, oh, _fuck._ Open up for me, baby, let me in,” Steve breathes over the flushed shell of Bucky’s ear.

The body under him yields, the struggling hole bowing against the pressure of his need. Bucky’s scream and Steve’s roar of his omega's name fill the room, the blown knot finally forcing inside and then Steve’s coming, hot and thick and endless. The muscles in his arm give out, and he collapses onto Bucky, and wood rushes up to meet them as they slam hard onto the table.  
  
It’s ecstasy like Steve’s never known, blistering bursts of static exploding in his entire body as it tenses and convulses, riding the waves tearing through him. Harsh grunts rush from his lungs as his hips grind down, pleasure still pulsing through him with every stream of come spurting into Bucky.

For the first time since his rut’s stirrings, he feels _sated,_ the itch under his skin finally soothed. Bucky’s muscles flex as he struggles under Steve’s crushing weight, but there are no sour notes in the air, and he’s mewling quietly against the table. There’s no pinching tightness around the base of his knot, and Steve knows Bucky hasn’t come, but he’s stretched so wide, so tight around Steve's knot, he’s keeping all his seed inside where it belongs.  
  
Steve rubs his cheek against Bucky’s shoulder before lifting onto his elbows. “Fuck, you’re amazing, Bucky. I knew you’d feel so good, sugar, just never knew _how_ good.”

Bucky makes a small, panicked noise as Steve lifts further and the taut skin of Bucky’s rim stretches, riding up Steve’s knot. He twists back, looking over his shoulder, eyes wide and panicked. “Steve? _No!_ What are you…?”  
  
“Shh, sweetheart, I’m not going to hurt you. Just need to speed things up a bit,” Steve murmurs, voice thick and slow. His fingers find the thin skin of their joining, the swell of his own knot nestled inside Bucky’s body and starts to milk it quickly.  
  
“Oh.” Bucky sags under him, resting his cheek back on the table.  
  
Emptying himself into Bucky feels different than milking himself in the shower; Steve’s body somehow knowing he’s wrapped up in an omega takes the sharp edge off his need. But he’d been selfish. If he’d taken care of Bucky, made him come as he should have, that sweet little ass would be sucking the come from his knot, drawing it out, drinking it down. He hisses as he works his fingers over the sensitive flesh.

It feels like an eternity before his knot is empty, every last drop of his seed working its way to Bucky’s belly. His hand falls away as his cock slips free. The aching sense of loss is swift and intense, but the buzzing under his skin and the unending need has finally quieted... for now.

Steve’s eyes linger on the glistening arch of Bucky’s body, lean muscles and smooth skin--he’s incredible. How in the world he isn’t the prize in some alpha’s arms, bonded, Steve will never know. But he’s sending a love letter to the universe for whatever circumstances had made it so. It has to mean something, that they’ve found each other, were so drawn to each other. Or, well... Steve is drawn to _Bucky_ , at least, like a magnet or a gravitational pull, he’s helpless to resist, and wouldn’t want to even if he could. But... would Bucky even have come to him today if he weren’t in heat? Steve pushes away the heavy feeling in his chest.

He takes Bucky’s waist in his hands, urging him up. “Come on, baby. Turn over for me.”  
  
Bucky’s movements are clumsy as he scrambles to obey, and when dark eyes meet Steve’s, they’re filled with uncertainty.

Steve grins, just the wrong side of feral, realizing his sweet omega thinks he’s done with him. Oh, no, he’s just getting started. Now he’s had a taste of being inside Bucky, becoming a part of him, he doesn’t want _anything_ else.

The prickling heat is creeping over his skin again, but he isn’t waiting for it to ignite; he doesn’t need prompting—the memory of Bucky’s body is enticement enough. Sweat slides over his palms as he hooks his hands under Bucky’s knees and lifts them, pressing strong thighs down to his own chest, putting that perfect ass on display—leaking come and slick—so open and ready for him. Ready for _more._

“Uh, Ste--”

Steve slides back home in a hard thrust, a deep groan barreling from his chest as Bucky clenches down around him. The force has a milky stream spilling from the angry hole, and Steve licks his lips, suddenly ravenous.

“Shit, baby, if you could see your pretty little ring, stretched so wide for me, so tight,” Steve grunts. He coaxes Bucky's legs up, straightening them, running his hands up slim calves to set them on his shoulders. Steve bows over Bucky, trapping the pretty leaking prick between their bellies. Bucky’s hips drive up against his, squirming, slicking up Steve’s skin with need, and he can’t stop the appreciative moan slipping from his lips. Bucky's so fucking eager.

He pins Bucky’s hips to the table with both hands, just hard enough to make Bucky gasp prettily, and starts rutting into the wet heat sucking at his cock. The pace is brutal, but the aching pressure is back in his gut again—in his knot—building with each thrust, and the need to come, _to claim_ steadily rising higher and beginning to eclipse all else.

Startled sounds shock from Bucky’s chest with every punishing thrust, the hard cock slicking up his belly. Writhing on the dark wood, Bucky twists and grapples at him desperately—a fucking wet dream come to life.

Bucky’s eyes roll back in his head as he scrubs it side to side over the table. Nails claw at Steve’s arms frantically. “Need, please, _please_.”

The begging is a quick fuse, setting Steve’s nerves igniting under his skin in a flash of pure heat. He snaps his hips faster, fucking into the sloppy hole, making lewd and beautiful noises as he fucks his own come deeper into Bucky’s belly. “What do you need, sweetheart?”

_”Steve.”_

The word is a plea, a prayer, and Steve knows what his baby needs, of course he does, but he wants to hear Bucky say it. “Say it, sugar. Gotta tell me what you want, baby. Say it for me.”

“Your knot, Steve, please, knot me, I need it, need _you_ ,” Bucky babbles before he lifts hooded eyes and locks them on Steve’s. _“Alpha.”  
_  
Bucky pleading, submitting, sends Steve flying. “Yeah, gonna stuff your pretty ass with my knot—” Steve growls, low and dark, not stopping his punishing movements, “—give my sweet omega what he wants.” A shuddering moan trembles through Bucky’s body, echoing up into his own as he surges forward to run his tongue up Bucky’s neck, licking his way up to that intimate gland... then clamping his lips over it. He sucks the thin skin hard enough to bruise—a claim, if only for tonight.  
  
Bucky shakes apart beneath him, crying out and pulsing hot across Steve’s belly, rim clenching down around him, searching for the promised knot. It’s heavenly, sinful, perfect, and Steve fucks into Bucky with abandon, chasing his own release. He’s close, _so close._ He sucks harder at Bucky’s neck, running his tongue over the gland, pulling Bucky’s essence into his mouth.

“Fuck, Steve, I can’t—I can’t…” Bucky gasps, hands tugging frantically at Steve’s hair. He lifts his mouth from Bucky’s neck with a scrape of his teeth, and with a shuddering whimper, Bucky arches his neck back invitingly.

Steve’s vision flares white around the edges. He wants to bite down and take Bucky in the most intimate of ways, bond their souls together like their bodies… but he settles for wrapping his hand around the offered flesh instead. Bucky’s eyes fly open at the light pressure on his neck, but they squeeze closed again when Steve changes the angle of his hips, driving up and—

Bucky keens.

The noise punches out of Bucky’s chest and settles onto Steve’s like a medal. “Did I find your sweet spot, sugar?” Steve growls, stabbing at Bucky’s prostate again. And again. _And again._ Alpha pride swells at the broken shouts ripping out of Bucky, at the tears leaking down his cheeks.  
  
“Steve, Steve, _please—_ ” Bucky sobs.  
  
Steve tightens his hold just a little, and Bucky’s eyes roll up once more. “It’s okay, sweet thing, gonna give you my knot now, need you to take it, need you to milk it for me.”

Bucky is a ragdoll in Steve’s arms as he slides his arms between skin and table and draws Bucky to him. His knot is full, throbbing and heavy, and he slams his hips forward, forcing into Bucky’s body with a breathless grunt. The quivering rim stretches, allowing him entry before constricting around him, and Steve growls into the hollow of Bucky’s throat as his second orgasm tears through him, just as powerful as the first.

He collapses onto Bucky, hips stuttering as he rides the sharp peaks of pleasure, every pulse from his cock making him shudder and moan. Under him, Bucky mewls softly, happy content sounds as his ass flutters—tightening and relaxing around the base of Steve’s cock—milking his knot so sweetly. It’s more incredible than he’d ever imagined in even his wildest fantasies… and he has _a lot._

He lowers Bucky back onto the table, smiling at the small whimper, before stretching out his back as he straightens, eyes never once leaving Bucky. With eyes closed, dark hair—sweat-damp and tangled—fannigd over the table, flushed cheeks and impish, satisfied smile, Bucky is a vision he would never tire of. Bucky lifts a hand to rub over his come-streaked belly, fingers making trails over the slight swell.  
  
Steve places his hand over Bucky’s. “Told you I was gonna fill you, sugar. Gonna fuck you till I’m dry, and you’re so full of my come your belly is nice and round, so full it’s leaking out of you.”

The color blooming over Bucky’s cheeks is deep and raw, but there’s no embarrassment in those dark, hooded eyes when they open, just fresh desire, and that itch is starting under Steve’s skin again. Bucky looks so debauched, wrecked, and _owned._ And Steve can’t get enough. Knot-deep inside Bucky, still leaking into his body, and he's thrumming with the need to fuck him again.Wants the sloppy mix of slick and come soaking his cock as he fucks it deep into Bucky’s belly, hear those heavenly sounds that curl his toes and ignite his skin as he pushes them from Bucky’s body…

Steve pulls back and lowers his hand, finding his buried knot once more.

“You don’t have to do that,” Bucky says breathlessly. “I like being full of you… connected to you,” he says shyly, ducking his head, hiding his eyes.

_So fucking sweet._ Steve doesn’t know what he ever did to deserve this moment, this night, but to hell if he isn’t going to take full advantage of it. “I know, sweetheart, but I need _more._ Need to keep fucking into you, filling you, _breeding you._ ”

Bucky’s whole body convulses at the words, jerking off the table, and his hand flies to his cock and squeezes the base as it twitches. A fresh bead of precome wells at the tip.

Steve’s greedy eyes chase is as it spills over, sliding down smooth skin, over that pretty jutting vein, down onto Bucky’s fingers. He roughs his tongue over dry lips, remembering Bucky jerking off at the clinic, making himself feel good. But Bucky’s hand doesn’t start riding his cock—instead, the tight fingers relax and lift before reaching down, down… until they’re digging into his own skin, curling, and—

Steve moans as they squeeze his knot.

“Yeah,” Bucky breathes out quietly, the words floating just long enough to reach Steve’s ear. “Put your pups in me, Alpha. Want ’em in my belly.”

_”Fuck, Bucky!_ ” White noise roars through Steve’s head. Bucky wants his pups, wants to be _bred._

Steve lunges forward. He mouths over Bucky’s jaw, sucks at the hinge. It falls open as he nips at it none-too-gently. He’s going to claim every inch of Bucky’s skin with his mouth, teeth, his—o _h._

The growl thrums up Steve’s throat, his empty knot and flagging cock slipping from Bucky’s body. He’s going to claim Bucky until he smells of nothing but his alpha, and that’s the only word his blissed-out brain can find.  
  
Steve's fingers slide into Bucky’s sloppy hole easily. He brushes against the little bundle of nerves, and Bucky arches off the table with a gasp. Steve crowds into Bucky’s space, pressing close enough for him to feel every word dance over his ear.

“Gonna make you _mine_.”

The warmth surrounding his hand soaks into his skin, and when he pulls his fingers free, they’re covered in a mix of them both--fluid and scent. Steve wraps them around the head of Bucky’s cock—spent and laying on his belly—and glides his hand down slowly, smearing the mess to the root before curving down, coating the smooth sac below. The overstimulation draws a whimper from Bucky’s throat, but he doesn’t jerk away, consenting to Steve marking him... _claiming_ him.  
  
It’s a heady thought, and Steve’s knot throbs, his cock fattening back up, his instincts stirring at the beautiful act of submission.  
  
He rolls the sensitive sac through his slick fingers, and Bucky moans and writhes, arms stretching out to grip the table edges, knuckles blooming white. He plays for a minute more, drinking in the sights and sounds of his omega consumed by sensation, so much pleasure his nerves are firing off, making his whole body twitch and convulse. It’s the most beautiful thing Steve’s ever seen...  
  
Until he looks down.

Bucky’s fucked out hole is red and angry, distended, trying to hold seed and slick inside. But Steve had stretched him so wide, filled him so much, that the glistening, milky fluid is leaking from the distended rim and pooling on the table below. Steve wants to soothe the poor ring with his tongue, but he tears his eyes away from temptation and runs his fingers through the puddle on the table, lifting it on to his fingers and rubbing it low over Bucky’s belly, through the happy trail and down, smearing it through the dark patch of hair, delighting in the textural difference of smooth skin and soft hair.

“Steve?” Bucky’s question is quiet, a tremulous thread of doubt tangled up inside it.

Steve reaches back into Bucky’s body, curling his fingers, coating them again, before dragging them slowly, _slowly_ free. “Give me your hands, sweetheart.”

Bucky obeys immediately, lifting his arms and presenting his hands. Steve rubs his fingers over the delicate skin, painting their combined mess harvested from Bucky’s body over the jutting veins and hidden glands… _scent-marking him._

_”Mine,”_ Steve growls softly.

A shiver races through Bucky’s body as Steve lifts his hands and places them above his head on the table. He runs his hands down the outstretched arms, through the soft hair beneath, down Bucky’s sides, his hips...down, down, until he finds the overflowing well of their combined lust. He spears his fingers into the slick entrance again, curling and coating them, before lifting them to rub the milky mess through the soft hair of Bucky’s armpit, left then right, covering his glands with their mixed scent.

_”Mine.”_

Bucky trembles under each gentle touch, whimpering soft sounds that make Steve ache somewhere deep inside. Though not a promise of permanent bonding like a bite, covering Bucky’s scent glands like this is a possessive gesture, an act of claiming him, and Bucky is not only allowing him to do it but welcoming it. Does he feel how Steve does? Wanting more than just tonight?

Hope balloons in Steve’s chest as his fingers find the now-familiar trail back down to the delights waiting between those smooth cheeks. Bucky is hard and leaking on his belly now, and Steve groans when he clenches and bares down on his fingers. Steve brushes over Bucky’s prostate before drawing his fingers free, lifting his hand and watching the copious amount of fluid slowly slipping down his palm down to his wrist.

_”Mine.”  
  
_ Steve smears the come and slick over Bucky’s scent gland—his _bonding_ gland—before dragging his fingers over the small swell of his adam’s apple, leaving a thick trail to the gland on the other side of his neck, and coats it, too.

It’s not as strong as a real bonding, and he aches with wanting, but for tonight, this will do.  
  
Steve swallows up the space between them in one quick move, before pulling in a long, deep breath. He hums contentedly when he can’t smell Bucky’s unbonded omega scent, just the heady mix of their scents bonded together. His eyelashes catch on Bucky’s cheek as they close, and he reaches back down, pushing into that wet hole one last time.

Straightening a little, Steve rubs sticky fingers over Bucky’s sealed lips. “Open up for me, baby,” he coaxes gently, reveling in the way they part immediately. Steve slides his fingers over Bucky’s tongue, dragging them over the firm flesh, eyes narrowing on the milky trail they make before Bucky’s lips close around him.

The wet suction of Bucky’s mouth hollows his cheeks and wrenches a moan from Steve’s chest. The heat of Bucky's tongue curling around his fingers, lifting the mess, licking him clean greedily, wanton little sounds reverberating through his throat makes him throb with fresh desire. He’d been right about Bucky’s oral cravings. The sweet little thing looks wholly blissed out just having fingers in his mouth, and Steve can just imagine him with his cock between those gorgeous lips.

He’ll never get enough of this, of _Bucky_. Never.

“Shit, Bucky. Just look at you, baby, so eager, so fucking perfect.” He slides his fingers from Bucky’s mouth, shushing the pitiful protests. “Wanna feel those lips around my cock later, but I need your tight little hole sucking at me right now. You want another knot, don’t you, sweetheart?”

Bucky’s head scrubs on the table as he nods hurriedly, gasping when Steve lifts his legs from his broad shoulders, lowering them and guiding them around his waist instead.

“Lock them ‘round me, Bucky.” Steve reaches behind his back, urging Bucky’s feet to cross over themselves. “Yeah, that’s it. Gonna take you to the bedroom, sweet thing. Want you to ride me.” Steve runs his hands up over Bucky’s thighs, riding them up to settle on his hips. “Wanna watch you bounce on my thighs before you sit on my knot.”  
  
“Fuck, _Steve,”_ Bucky gasps as Steve manhandles him, lining their bodies up once more before he drags Bucky back onto his cock in one quick, smooth movement. _”Please.”_

“What do you want, Bucky? Gotta ask for it, baby.” Steve takes Bucky’s weight easily, lifting him into his arms, pulling him to his chest. Bucky wraps both arms around Steve’s neck before dropping his head down onto his shoulder.

“Want _you_ , Steve,” Bucky purrs.  
  
The words make Steve’s chest tighten even as Bucky relaxes into the hold, mewling soft noises into his neck as each step jostles the cock deep inside him. The legs around his waist shift, heels digging in, trying to find purchase as Bucky adjusts his position, wriggling his hips and trying to seat himself deeper, trying to swallow up Steve’s half-knot.

Steve chuckles darkly at the impatient display. “Oh, such a greedy boy. You need another one already?”

Bucky ducks his head against Steve’s shoulder, the feverish skin broadcasting his embarrassment despite his attempts to hide it.

“Yeah, you do. Want your alpha to fill you, hmm? Need me to make your achy little hole feel better?”

“Oh, shit, _Steve!”_ Bucky’s words are muffled as he twists his head to Steve’s neck, and clamps his lips over the sensitive gland lurking there.

It’s hot and wet and perfect, Bucky’s mouth making it practically vibrate under the ministrations. His teeth drag over the gland, and Steve’s fingers convulse, digging into Bucky’s ass hard enough to draw a whimper. His steps falter. He stands stock still, concentrating on nothing but Bucky’s mouth _—_ _his teeth_ _—_ raking over his bonding gland. All it would take is a little more pressure for Bucky to sink his teeth into that special spot…

Breath caught in his throat, Steve waits, realizing with an all-encompassing _knowing_ that _that_ is what he wants _—_ to have this amazing man, this beautiful, sweet omega in his arms not just now, but _forever._ Does Bucky want him, too? _  
_

But Bucky’s teeth lift from his skin, that eager tongue lapping over the almost-bite, and Steve’s breath bleeds from him slowly, weighed down with crushing disappointment.

The wet smack of Bucky’s mouth lifting is followed immediately by a whimpering, unspoken plea. It urges Steve forward, and he closes the little remaining distance to the bed quickly. He pushes the despair aside, the now familiar sensations _—_ like scorching pins and needles _—_ spreading under his skin again. Emptying himself into Bucky is working, the rut-lust burning away for longer each time they mate, but the potency of the need when it surges back up hasn’t abated.

The mattress dips under their combined weight as Steve sinks onto the edge of the bed. Sheets twist and pull as he swivels, and the soft memory-foam doesn’t provide much leverage as he digs his heels in, shuffling up until his back hits the padded headboard, inadvertently trapping a pillow between skin and fabric. He tugs it free and flops it down beside him.

Steve groans as Bucky wriggles again, smooth ass rubbing deliciously over his knot and he groans. He skates the tips of his fingers down Bucky’s sides, watching him try and squirm away from the touch. Grinning and filing away the knowledge that Bucky is ticklish for use later, Steve wraps his hands around Bucky's hips.

He’s an _angel_ , Steve decides as Bucky stares down at him _—_ pink dusting his cheeks, long lashes fringing lust-drunk eyes, that damned lower lip being crushed between his teeth again, and a messy dark halo in wild disarray, tangled from pleasure already taken.

“Look so fuckin’ pretty sitting on my cock, baby. Does it feel good?”

Bucky nods fervently, knees pressing into the mattress as he rocks forward experimentally, a hungry moan breaking over his lips. “So fucking good,” he whimpers.

“Mmhm,” Steve hums. “That little hole of yours feels nice and full, doesn’t it? Stuffed full of cock and come?”

Bucky makes a choking sound, like he’s trying not to swallow his own tongue, and drops forward, shaky hands locking on Steve’s shoulders. Blunt nails bite at Steve’s skin, but the stinging pain only ratchets his pleasure higher, the building pressure at the base of his spine growing hotter, more insistent.  
  
He grips the cheeks resting on his thighs harshly and urges Bucky into motion. “Come on, sweetheart, move that little ass for me, make your Alpha feel good.”

The look on Bucky’s face is unbridled devotion, the innate desire of an omega to pleasure his alpha dripping from his very pores. He lifts, agonizingly slowly, until Steve’s cock slips free. Bucky stops, poised above him. Impatient, Steve clamps his hands on Bucky’s hips, about to force him back down, but freezes as something warm and wet drips onto his cock. He growls, watching the rivulet of slick slide lazily down his cock. Instead of pushing down, Steve lifts Bucky higher, watching another thick teardrop of liquid drip out of Bucky’s body. He hisses as it lands on his knot.

“Jesus, baby, look at you, fucking _leaking_ for me.” Steve rubs a hand between Bucky’s cheeks before sinking two fingers into the sloppy hole. Bucky’s knees tremble, his whole body shaking as Steve crooks his fingers, rubbing over the special little bundle of nerves.

“Oh fuck, _oh fuuuuuck!”_

“Love making you feel good and playin’ with your sweet spot, but I need inside again. Alpha’s cock needs some attention, baby. Think you can make me come?”

Bucky gasps as Steve withdraws his fingers, but nods eagerly, the flush from his cheeks burning down his neck. “Yes, Steve _— Alpha._”

Steve guides him back down with hands clamped around his hips, only lifting one to slap Bucky on the ass, and issue a gruff command to move once he’s fully seated. Bucky takes the order to heart, fucking himself on Steve’s cock, slick and come being forced out of his hole with each downward drive, their shared mess pooling over his inflamed knot.

“Look at you bouncin’ on my cock. So pretty, Buck. You're making your alpha feel so good.”

The words spur Bucky on _—_ determined little grunts push from his throat as his pace increases, the hair not clinging to sweat-soaked skin dancing around his head as he drops it back, anchoring himself to Steve’s shoulders with curling fingers. He takes Steve into his belly again and again, quicker, harder, ass meeting thighs with gorgeous slaps that must be stinging so sweetly, little gasps shocking from Bucky’s lungs like he’s surprised each time he bottoms out, his rim trying to stretch around Steve’s knot. Sweat drips onto Steve’s thighs as Bucky’s body quakes, legs straining, trembling as exhausted muscles struggle to comply.

“Yeah, that’s it, baby, ride my cock, nice and hard. Good boy.”

Bucky trembles at the praise, his motions stuttering. “Oh, fuck, Steve, I’m gonna _—_ I need _—_ ”

“Yeah, baby? What do you need?”

“Need to come,” Bucky whines. “Please, _please.”_

Steve’s hands tighten on Bucky’s waist, holding him flush against his own thighs. “Slow down, baby. Can’t come yet, ain’t done with you yet,” he growls.

Bucky writhes in Steve’s lap, trying desperately to break the hold, to move, to chase his climax. “No, Steve, please… I have to _—_ ”

The words break off as Steve takes Bucky’s chin in his hand, pressing tight, tilting it down. Bucky’s eyes go wide with shock and heat, and just like a kitten held by the scruff of the neck, Bucky stops fighting, body going soft and pliant. Steve thrills. “There you go. You can hold it for me, kitten.” It’s a statement, not a question. He wraps his free hand around the base of Bucky’s cock and squeezes hard, ignoring Bucky's cry. It jerks in his hand, the pressure of the pleasure trying to burst free. “You can be a good boy for me, can’t you?” he coos.

Bucky’s dick twitches in Steve’s hand, dribbling precome at the question. He gnaws on that tortured lip and nods his head. “Ye-yes, Alpha.”

Steve releases Bucky’s chin, putting the hand back onto Bucky’s hip, and guides them to grind down over his knot. Concentration pinches Bucky’s beautiful face, and Steve knows how hard he’s fighting back his climax _—_ can feel just how much it costs Bucky as the fingers on his shoulders bite deeper. Bucky’s so fucking perfect, so obedient, the need to pleasure his alpha coming at the cost of his own.

The pressure around his cock is incredible. Despite being used for his pleasure twice already, the little hole is tight, clenching down on him like a damn virgin, and Steve wonders idly if he could fuck Bucky hard enough to keep it lax and open _—_ be able to prop him up on all fours and watch his come running from the gaping hole like water from a faucet.

Steve rolls his hips, grinding into Bucky, “I know you need to come, baby, _I know_. I’m gonna let you; I’m gonna make you feel good. But I need you to come around me once my knot’s already inside.”

_“Steeeeve,”_ Bucky groans, hips rocking in abortive little thrusts, trying to fuck up into Steve’s fist. “I need it, need to come _—_ ”

“I know you're hurting, baby, but you’re doing so well holding on. I can feel your little cock ready to explode all over my fist. You’re gonna make such a mess, aren’t you, sweet thing? Just hold on for me a little longer. Doin’ so good, Bucky. Nearly there, baby, nearly there.”

“I can’t, I can’t _—_ ” Bucky shakes his head frantically, turning watery, pleading eyes on Steve’s. _”I can’t._ ”

“Yes, you can. Come on, sweet thing,” Steve grunts. “Rock those hips, baby, yeah, just like that. Fuck, such a sweet omega, aren’t you? Taking your alpha’s cock into your belly, making me feel so good. You’re gonna make me come. You want that, don’t you, Buck? Want me to fill you?”

“Yes, yes. _Please_. _Please alpha,_ come in me, make me come, _let me come,”_ Bucky chokes out the words in a broken sob, tears clinging to his dark lashes.

The sight of Bucky so wrecked, so needy, shunts Steve to the edge, and he releases his hold of Bucky's cock. He lifts Bucky’s hands from his shoulders and guides them backward instead. _“Shh,_ it’s okay. I’m gonna give you what you need now, baby. Lean back, put your hands on my knees, that’s it. Spread those thighs for me, good boy.”

Bucky’s hands clamp down on Steve’s knees, back arching beautifully. His hips start moving, a stream of _ah’s_ spilling from his lips, leaking cock bouncing against his belly with every movement, sticky smacks of precome wetting his skin. Steve growls as Bucky’s belly pushes toward him _—_ heavy and swollen with his seed.

He rubs over it possessively. “Oh, fuck, look at you. Jesus, Bucky, you look like you’re stuffed full of my pups already.”

_“St-Steve!_ Oh, shit.” Bucky’s nails scratch over Steve’s skin as his rhythm turns jerky.

“Yeah, you like that, baby? Want me to breed you up?

Bucky nods frantically, rocking frantically on Steve’s cock, uncoordinated, no thought just chasing the peak. “Yes, want that, want that so bad, Steve, please.”

“Yeah, that’s my sweet boy. Gonna let me breed you like a good little bitch, aren’t you?’

Bucky keens, his motion faltering all together, struck dumb, mouth slack and nodding, sobbing as fat tears roll down his cheeks.

“Then _take it._ Work it out of me, sugar. Take it, Buck.” Steve grunts roughly, wrapping his hands around the shuddering waist, lifting and pulling, fucking himself with Bucky’s body. “Need to get ’em deep in your belly, sweet boy _—_ pump you nice and full of my seed. Gonna fuck a whole litter into you.”

“Alpha, Alpha _— Steve_, I need _—_ ohh, please, _I need —_“ Bucky wails, collapsing onto Steve’s chest, scratching at his back, clawing at his body, trying to pull him closer.

Steve growls as wet tears smear over his neck, and he fucks Bucky over his cock harder, quicker. “Such a good little bitch for me, Buck. Fuck baby, you’re gonna make me come _—_ gonna put my pups in you, fill my bitch’s belly nice and full, make you mine, just _mine.”_

“Steve, I need _—_ can I _—_ please _—let me come—_ fuck me, breed me, give me your pups, please, please _—_ ” Bucky breaks off, latching on to that sensitive glandskin of his neck, and sucks hard enough to bruise _—_ to claim him.

Steve roars, forcing Bucky’s hips down, making that tight rim stretch around his knot, and he’s coming _—_ the pleasure so intense it’s borderline painful, pulsing stabs of pleasure-pain shooting out from his knot as it throbs and constricts, spilling into Bucky as he screams Steve’s name, clamping down around him like a vise.

He crushes his arms around Bucky, holding him close as he grinds his hips up, unable to stay still while his cock continues to jerk, and his knot empties in long, hot pulses. Bucky tucks himself closer, his body trembling with aftershocks of intense pleasure.

Bucky giggles sleepily, sounding fuck-drunk and happy, before unfolding his legs. Steve shuffles forward as Bucky nudges them around behind his back, tucking himself closer. Steve’s chest feels like bursting. The unending need, for the moment sated.

He tightens his arms, reveling in their combined scents blanketing the room. Steve cannot remember ever feeling this overwhelming sense of contentment. He wants this moment to last forever _—_ wrapping around and wrapped up in Bucky, listening to his joyful sounds, the warmth of his body flush against his...where it belongs.

Everything is perfect.

Bucky’s chest is rising languidly in his embrace, drifting into sleep. The gentle prickling heat dancing under Steve’s skin is a sign the rut hasn’t broken, but he has a few minutes until it comes, and he’s going to spend them memorizing the feel of Bucky in his arms. The breath he pulls in feels like the first real one he’s taken in hours, warm and earthy floral tones filling his lungs _—_ the scent of Bucky’s happiness.

Resting his cheek against the dark, damp strands plastered to Bucky’s head, Steve closes his eyes, Bucky’s heart thrumming in time with his own.

“Bucky, baby, wake up for me, _please._ ” Steve can’t fight the whine in his voice, stretched too thin, threatening to crack as he tries to wake Bucky. His nerves are blistering under his skin, and his aching cock is finding no relief where it’s scrubbing relentlessly against the bedsheets, leaving a wet trail.

Steve curses and rubs his hands down Bucky’s arms again. Curled up with Bucky, he’d fallen asleep, only to be ripped from slumber by the agony of denied desires roaring through him. His hands drift down, rubbing low over Bucky’s belly, praying the tactile input feeding into his sleeping body will be enough to rouse him, but Steve knows it’s all but pointless _—_ if lifting the dead-weight from his lap and lying Bucky on the bed hadn’t woken him, Steve’s not sure anything will. Not till morning, at least… and Steve can’t wait that long.

He feels like he’s going to die.

The straining pressure throbbing in his knot spirals out, filling his entire body with excruciating need.

Need that only Bucky can soothe. The instincts rearing up inside him are a cresting wave about to break _—_ but only if he can rut into Bucky one last time.

Running his fingers through Bucky’s hair, Steve grinds down against the bed, moaning when his cock rubs against Bucky’s thigh.

_He’s not going to last._

Wicked thoughts creep up from the shadows of his mind _—_ of taking what he needs, taking Bucky. Like _this..._

Short strands slip through his fingers as he grabs a hank of his hair and tugs sharply, letting the bright pain biting at his scalp chase the dark visions away. He can’t. He _won’t_.

Bucky will wake up… _he has to._

“Sweetheart, c’mon. Can you open your eyes for me? I need you, baby. Wake up, please wake up. Your Alpha needs you, sweet boy.”

Bucky’s lashes flutter, and he groans. “Steve?”

“Yeah, that’s it, sugar, come back to me,” Steve coaxes, heart trying to beat clear out his chest. Bucky’s awake; It’s going to be okay.

“M’sleepy,” Bucky grumbles as Steve cups his cheek and turns away from the touch.

“I know, Bucky, baby _, I know._ But I need you, need your little hole to take care of me one more time, can you do that for me?” The instincts roaring through Steve’s head is unbearable. He pulls in slow, calculated breaths, trying to calm his thundering heart, but everything is too sharp, too hot, too much, and he can’t think beyond the pressure in his knot and the fire in his skin.

Bucky’s eyelashes finally part, heavy lids only lifting halfway.

“There you are,” Steve murmurs, lowering his hand to Bucky’s hip and squeezing reassuringly. “My sweet omega. Think you can take one more knot for me, baby?”

Bucky blinks slowly, before nodding and spreading his thighs.

“That’s it, that’s my good boy.” Steve raises to his knees and grips Bucky’s thighs, draping them over his own. With trembling hands, Steve parts pale cheeks, groaning at the beautiful sight that greets him, but he doesn’t spare it more than a glance before he’s lining his cock up and feeding it into Bucky’s body.

The edge of desperation recedes as he bottoms out, grinding his knot against the gaping rim, not trying to drive inside, just reveling in the sensation of Bucky around him, welcoming him home. “Oh, fuck. So good, baby. You’re so good for your alpha, aren’t you?”

The lack of Bucky’s breathless answer has Steve’s head snapping up, tearing his gaze away from their joining to find Bucky’s face _—_ to finddark lashes kissing sleep-flushed cheeks.

_“Nononono,_ Bucky, no! Wake up, sweetheart. Oh, fuck, don’t do this to me. _Shit!_ Come on, sugar. Come back to me.” He rubs his hand over Bucky’s chest. “Bucky, _please_.” He growls, low in his throat, hating that he’s begging, but too far gone to stop.

Bucky hums sleepily, reaching up to cup Steve’s jaw. “S’okay. I can make you feel good, Steve. Steve… _Stevie._ ” His hand drops back down to his face, rubbing at his eyes.

Guilt punches Steve in the gut seeing the dark smudges under those eyes. “Fuck, I know you’re tired, I’m sorry, sweetheart, I just… _I need you,_ need to knot you, Bucky. One last time, baby. Can you stay awake for me?”

Bucky hums as his lashes lift, eyes rolling in his head before he finds focus on Steve’s face with a dopey smile. He places his hand on Steve’s chest, over his heart. He taps gently with his index finger. “You’re m’Alpha, jus’ mine.” His smile edges wider, slow blinks punctuating every third word. “An’ I’m yours, all yours. Le’me help you… take what you need. You can knot me, _s’okay_ …” Bucky’s hand drops, curling to his own chest as his lashes flutter back down. “ _—_ ’m all yours,” he breathes softly, a faint smile lingering on sleep-slack lips.

Steve’s whole body goes rigid, and for a heart-stopping moment, he thinks he’s going to bust his knot here, nestled up against Bucky’s ass.  
  
Oh, Jesus. _Oh, holy fuck_.

His hips twitch forward of their own accord, his cock, buried deep inside Bucky, jumps and leaks.

_'Take what you need.'_

The growl rumbling in his chest is confusion, frustration, and shame, his gut churning even as his cock grows impossibly harder.

_He can’t._

He can’t…

...Can he?

Part of him wants to shake Bucky awake, make sure he knows what he’s said, but… _he said it._ He’d been awake enough to form words, to… to call him _his Alpha_ , call him _Stevie_. Heat of another kind fills Steve's chest, but he can’t focus on it. Thoughts slip through his mind like water through parted fingers. Arms trembling under the effort to not just _take_ , he readjusts, the movement jostling Bucky on the bed, angles changing, and Steve feels the head of his cock kiss Bucky’s prostate and oh _—_

Bucky’s cock twitches on his thigh, a small noise puffing over his lips.

Steve rolls his hips, nudging up against Bucky’s prostate once more, groaning as his omega sighs another soft sound, his cock starting to fill slowly, and Steve can’t hold back anymore.

Drawing back before ramming forward, he fucks into Bucky hard. The motion flows through Bucky’s sleeping form in beautiful waves, not impeded by tensed muscles. Bucky doesn’t clench around him as his movements speed up, but there’s no resistance either. Bucky’s just a warm, wet, willing hole for his cock, a plaything for his selfish pleasure, and Steve growls, spilling precome into Bucky’s already full ass.

The wrongness of it, of having Bucky’s head loll on the pillow, body pliant and open as he takes, makes shame smolder over his skin. But when he hits that sweet spot inside Bucky again, and he huffs out a small moan, his cock twitching on his belly, the shame burns to ash. 

“Such a good boy for me, Bucky _—_ taking everything I’m giving you. Gonna make you feel good too, baby. Gonna make you come for me.”

The words fall from his lips between the harsh grunts and spilled moans _—_ the strange fantasy borne at the clinic inexplicably filled now, pushing him to the edge of bliss too quickly.  
  
Steve could drown in the pleasure dragging him under, watching his movement feeding into Bucky's lax body, rolling through him like a ragdoll, sweet and pliant, face smooth in sleep, dark lashes not even fluttering as Steve hammers into his body mindlessly, spurred on by instinct and chasing release. Steve keens when his almost-full knot drive into Bucky’s body. In sleep, with no pain to force it to clench down and deny him, his knot stretches the relaxed rim easily. He collapses atop Bucky, shoving his elbows under him to take his weight, stilling knot deep, chest heaving.

He drags out slowly, just enough for the rim to stretch around him and let him slide free, before easing back in. The feeling is incredible, nothing like he’s ever felt, the tight ring rubbing over the most sensitive part of him. With his cock nestled deep in Bucky’s belly, Steve fucks his knot, just his knot, in and out of the tight hole.

“Oh, Christ. You’re taking my knot so good, Buck. Oh, fuck. You’re going to feel this in the morning. Gonna be so sore tomorrow. Your little ass so red and achy from fucking my knot, but I’ll kiss it better for you, sweet boy. Make your little hole feel so good like you’re making me feel now.”

Steve lifts Bucky higher as he readjusts, rutting his knot in and out but searching, shifting his hips until _—_

The sleepy whimper slipping from Bucky’s lips let Steve know he’s found his target, and he rocks inside again, Bucky stretching around his knot and grunting as Steve connects with his prostate once more.

“That’s it. Need you to come for me, sweet thing.”

Steve grabs Bucky’s balls with his free hand _—_ rolling, tugging, squeezing _—_ watching his cock jerk. The constant squeezing around Steve’s knot has him teetering on the edge, and he grits his teeth, straining his muscles to stave off his orgasm, wanting Bucky to come around him one last time.

“Come on, sweet boy, come for me, _come with me,_ ” Steve grunts, his orgasm hanging over him like a wave about to crash down. “Come on, Buck.”

Bucky’s lashes flutter as his face pinches tight, and Steve ruts into him just as the abused ring spasms around him. Steve’s broken shout of Bucky’s name is lost to the rushing of blood in his ears, his heart beating wildly in his throat, and somewhere deep inside him, something shifts. Like a fever breaking, the fog of rut-lust lifts, burning away with each stream of come pulsing from his cock, and he slumps down over the still-sleeping omega. Bucky’s cock twitching weakly against his belly _—_ dryly, with nothing left to give.

Exhaustion rushes to fill the empty space inside him, turning his world dark around the edges. Steve's limbs are heavy, unwieldy as he lifts from Bucky, and careful to keep them connected, lifts Bucky into his arms. Steve turns him gently on his knot, bringing Bucky's back to his own chest before lowering them back down to the bed. He curls around Bucky, tucking one leg between the omega's, settling himself more firmly in Bucky’s body before reaching down to pull a sheet up and over them both.

He nuzzles at the back of Bucky’s neck, humming happily as he breathes in their mixed scents.

“Mine,” Steve whispers against Bucky’s skin. He presses his lips against the make-shift claim mark already purpling on Bucky's neck _—_ a promise.

With Bucky’s steady heartbeat echoing into his own chest, Steve follows him into sleep.  
  



	10. May Cause Heartburn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Just remember to breathe and you'll be fine. It's never as bad as you're expecting. ;) 
> 
> ii. Pls feel free to flail/shout/emoji at me here on on tumblr [@thewaythatwerust](http://thewwaythatwerust.tumblr.com)

It’s the unfamiliar weight pressing against Steve’s body that lures him out of the darkness. The warmth is comfort in his chest though his drowsy mind can’t place why. He tightens his embrace, pulling the soothing mass closer. Eyelids weighed down with the leaden remnants of sleep fight commands to lift as Steve yawns widely, pulling morning into his lungs and—

_Bucky._

As familiar now as his own, the honeyed scent teases his tongue on the way to his chest, and sleep sweeps back like a curtain. Still, he keeps his eyes closed, basking in the feel of Bucky against him, the steady beat of Bucky’s heart keeping time with his. Long hair tickles his face where it’s pressed against a warm shoulder, and impulsively, Steve purses his lips, pressing a chaste kiss to the unseen skin.

_Bucky._

Bucky’s still here, wrapped in his arms.  
  
 _He stayed.  
_  
Sunshine explodes in Steve’s chest, overflowing and lighting up every fiber of his being with ineffable joy.

When he can’t fight temptation any longer, Steve opens his eyes—his heart _aching_ at the sight that greets him. The soft rays of peach-tinged light stretch from the window to caress the beautiful body slotted against his, clinging to the curves of Bucky’s shoulder, lingering on thighs curled up to his belly, and painting pretty highlights in his hair.

Steve’s fingers twitch where they’re resting on Bucky’s skin, his hand grasping for a phantom paintbrush before his mind has even resolved to immortalize this moment on canvas. Though, god, there’s no way he could ever do this stunning creature justice.

Steve lifts his arm slung across Bucky’s chest to trail his hand down the enticing line of Bucky’s waist, coming to rest on a jutting hip, smiling when Bucky makes a soft, sleepy noise of pleasure. He wants to kiss Bucky awake—his lips or maybe lower down—his mouth making amends for last night with promises for the future.

Hope balloons in his chest. The thought of a future— _a forever_ —with Bucky makes Steve’s breath catch. Every morning could be like this, just like this, waking with Bucky in his arms, every day made better by coming home to him, spending every night worshiping him until exhausted bodies collapse in a tangle of sweaty, sated limbs, holding each other until the sun rises… and then doing it all over again the next day.

It sounds like paradise.  
  
But a relationship can’t be planned on his desires alone.  
  
Steve takes a steadying breath, tempering his fantasies and reeling back his yearning as best he’s able, though the rapid fluttering of hope’s wings still beat defiantly in their cage of bone.

When Bucky wakes, they’ll need to talk, and when they do, Steve will finally lay his cards on the table—all of them. He’ll apologize for his actions last night and beg forgiveness if he must, but he’s going to tell Bucky the truth—how he feels, that he wants more… that he wants _everything._

He’s going to tell Bucky he’s falling in love with him.

Icy fingers of panic skitter down his spine, shaking his resolve. It’s so soon, it’s _too_ soon. Will Bucky get upset? Reject the declaration—reject _him?_ They’ve only known each other for a couple of days, mostly only in a doctor-patient capacity… until last night.  
  
 _Last night changed everything._

And… Bucky wouldn’t have come to Steve’s apartment in the first place if he wasn’t interested in more, though, would he? Wouldn’t have begged, wouldn’t have stayed. Steve has to believe that means Bucky feels _something_. And maybe he’s not halfway to head over heels already, but there’s a chance that one day he could be.

Steve inches his arm out from beneath Bucky, frowning when he doesn’t so much as stir. Unable to ignore the nagging worry in the back of his mind, Steve places two fingers to Bucky’s throat gently. That earns him a quiet, disgruntled sound, but the thrumming below his fingers is steady and strong. He props himself up on an elbow, stretching and craning his neck over Bucky’s sleeping form to check his lips. They’re soft and smooth with no signs of dehydration, and the tension in Steve’s shoulders eases.

His movements are slow and careful as he edges away from Bucky and climbs from the bed, already planning the next steps in his mind. If he’s going to do this, he has to do it right.

Steve needs to get Bucky some breakfast and liquids to replenish the fluids lost last night. He ignores the stirrings in his cock as the phantom feeling of Bucky coming dry against him haunts his skin.

Is Bucky a juice or coffee guy? French toast? Eggs? Cereal? Steve discounts the last one immediately. Cereal is not a fitting breakfast for the start of what will hopefully become their happily ever after.

After one last lingering look at the angel gracing his bed, Steve strides to the small attached ensuite, running through the mental checklist rapidly compiling in his head. He needs to clean himself up, get dressed, decide the breakfast menu, and start work on some kind of bullet-list of talking points so he doesn’t just ask Bucky to bond with him the minute those light eyes open.

By the time he’s pushing his wallet into the pocket of his jeans and stepping through the door in the lobby, Steve’s cheeks are aching from the deep smile boosting them up. He heads toward his favorite cafe one block over—their coffee is excellent, and they have so many mouth-watering food options on offer that he finds it hard to choose, always vowing that one day, he’ll just buy one of everything. He grins as the brisk air bites at his cheeks. Today is the perfect day to make good on that promise.

Even at this early hour, the sidewalk is peppered with people rushing past him, but Steve just strolls forward without haste, turning his face up to catch the sun where it’s slipping between the cracks of the towering buildings. Judging by the dark smudges under Bucky's eyes, he will be asleep for a while yet, and Steve hums contentedly, walking tall, knowing the world’s most enchanting omega is asleep in _his_ bed, waiting for him.  
  
Steve’s feet don’t touch the ground for the rest of the walk to the cafe.

The paper bags clutched in his hands and tucked under his arm hold enough french toast and regular toast with half a dozen different single-serve jam options, omelets and bacon, waffles, yogurt and fresh fruit, some kind of mini quiche, a blueberry muffin, and croissants. The only thing he hadn’t bought was pancakes—none could hold a candle to Bucky’s.  
  
It’s enough food to feed half the apartment building, and Steve knows he’s gone completely and utterly overboard, but he wants this morning to be perfect. He can imagine the delighted look on Bucky’s face when presented with all the options… and in the back of his mind, he can see it all spilling over the bed as Bucky melts into Steve's arms, climbs into his lap, and lets him slip pieces of fruit into that hungry mouth as Bucky rocks lazily on his cock; no frenzied desire rushing their pleasure, just long hours spent luxuriating in how they fit together perfectly, making breathless plans for the future.  
  
Steve balances the cardboard tray—filled with two coffees, an orange juice, and some kind of green health smoothie—on his forearm with the help of a bent elbow, and opens his apartment door awkwardly.  
  
The two bags tucked under his arm drop to the floor as the sour scent floods his nose. He hastens to the breakfast bar, empties his arms, then runs to the bedroom.

The empty bed’s twisted sheets stare back at him, and Steve’s heart lurches into his throat. He wants to call Bucky’s name, but his mouth is too dry, and he can’t force words past the thick lump choking him. Moving swiftly through the apartment, he checks each room before retracing his steps, checking again, until finally, he’s standing alone in the living room, heart beating wildly in his throat, eyes locked on the open doorway.

_Bucky’s gone._

A cacophony of questions swirls in his head as he stands unmoving before the volume rises loud enough to jolt him into motion. He scoops the bags off the floor and deposits them next to the others. The brown bags crinkle as he picks at them distractedly, focusing on what’s in front of him instead of the dark tide of hopelessness swelling inside him, inching higher, drowning his dreams.

But maybe… maybe Bucky just ducked down to his apartment for fresh clothes or food or… something. Or perhaps he woke up and thought Steve had deserted him. Or maybe he got called away. Hell, maybe he was sleepwalking.

Steve scrubs a frustrated hand through his hair, annoyed at his brain’s obvious reaching. But the fact remains he’s not going to know _why_ Bucky left unless he marches downstairs, knocks on his door and actually asks.

If Bucky slams the door in his face… Steve’s heart constricts painfully. Well, then at least he’ll have his answer and reason enough to drag his ass back up here and eat himself into a coma, surrounded by the warring scents of Bucky’s pleasure and regret.  
  


He’s never felt less like an alpha in his life as he forces himself to Bucky’s door. With every step closer, the voice in his head telling him to turn and flee gets louder, and it’s only the small, glimmering shard of hope that this is just some kind of misunderstanding that keeps him from listening to it.

When finally faced with the closed door in front of him, Steve’s hand rises—and falters. Is an outright rejection _really_ better than not knowing? He huffs out a disgusted breath and lets his hand fall against the wood, rapping three times, loudly.

This is how he’d ended up in this fucking situation to begin with. If he’d just marched down here the day after he’d moved in, after he’d seen Bucky on the fire escape below him that first night, and asked the omega out, all of this could have been avoided. Then, he wouldn’t have become Bucky’s doctor; he could have been taking care of Bucky before his heat even took hold, and could have helped him through it properly.

“Bucky?” Steve’s voice breaks and he cringes, calling out again, louder, before knocking again.

For three long minutes, he waits, heart in throat, counting each agonizing second as it ticks by.  
He knocks again.

“Bucky? It’s Steve. We need to talk. Can you open up? Please?”

He knows Bucky’s inside; the sour scent painted a trail in the air from his apartment to Bucky’s. Abruptly, the desire to confess his feelings is eclipsed by the need to know that Bucky’s alright.

His knuckles fall onto the wood one last time. “Bucky? Are you okay? Could you just… could you just let me know you’re okay?”

Steve knows he shouldn’t, _knows_ it’s overstepping, but hesitantly, he grasps the doorknob in his hand and—

_It’s locked._

Hope abandons him as swift and sure as the sun sinking below the horizon, taking all the world’s warmth with it.

Steve blinks himself out of the barren reverie. He doesn’t remember leaving Bucky’s door or coming through his own, but he must have, given the fact he’s staring at the dried evidence of shared lust smeared over his kitchen table. He reaches out a finger to trace over the stains and waits for the wave of emotion to crash over him, suffocate him, make him crumple to the floor. But there’s just… _nothing_. He feels _hollow,_ like he’s still lingering outside Bucky’s door, and all that’s come back is an empty shell.

But it is his fault, all of it. Of course, Bucky had left. It had been folly to think he wouldn’t. After what Steve had said and done… Bucky had probably slipped out of bed and through the door the minute he had the chance. And Steve couldn’t blame him.

In the heat of the moment, fanned by flames of lust he’d been unable to control, he’d said things that… _Fuck,_ maybe it’s for the best that Bucky hadn’t opened his door. He can’t lie, not anymore, and the truth is, though the rut-lust loosened his tongue, it had been _his_ tongue, and his thoughts and desires dripping from it.  
  
He wants Bucky to be _his_. Wants to see Bucky’s belly swollen with his pups. Wants to trap a kiss of air between their palms, twining their fingers together as they stroll through the city, side by side, eyes only for each other. Wants breathless laughter trailing along behind them as impatient feet race up the stairs to his apartment—to _their_ apartment—not getting two steps inside the door before impatient hands and insatiable lips are drawing hungry growls and eager whimpers, the world fading away as they lose themselves in the feverish pleasure of each other. He wants it all. He wants too much _— took_ too much—and now, he’s being punished for his greed.

Steve drops his head onto the table, a dull throb of pain spreading from where his forehead meets the hard wood. He had been so stupid—he should have picked Bucky up and put him outside the damned door. But, no. Once he had Bucky in his arms, he could never have put him down and walked away.

But Bucky… Bucky had shown no interest in him—in that way—at all before yesterday. Steve had failed him as a doctor—caught up in rut, he hadn’t kept Bucky’s appointment. Last night hadn’t been about him at all; it was just about Bucky. He’d meant it when he’d said it could just be a mutually-beneficial arrangement. Bucky wasn’t here because he wanted Steve, only wanted what he could give him; Steve had just been the nearest knot.

The banging on his door makes Steve’s head jerk up even as his heart leaps back into his throat.

_Bucky_.

He jolts to his feet so quickly that the chair crashes to the ground behind him but he ignores it, already halfway to the door. He wrenches it open with trembling hands.

Clint pushes past him without waiting for an invitation. “You better have a good fucking explanation.”

Clint... Work. _Fuck._

“Oh, Clint, I’m s—”

“No, save it. I don’t wanna fucking hear it, Steve. No apologies, I want an explanation. I want to know why the hell you weren’t at work yesterday. Why you didn’t return my texts or answer my calls. Why these—” Clint tosses his own shirt and pants at him “—were in my office stinking up the place with alpha musk, making my omega clients—who should have been _your_ fucking omega clients, FYI—especially twitchy, and—” he plants his now-free hands on his hips and huffs out a breath “—why the fuck your apartment smells like a fucking scent den.”

“I’m sor—” Steve breaks off at the murderous look on Clint’s face and drops his gaze to the come-crusted clothes in his hand. “I meant to bring these home with me.” It’s the truth, he had planned to, but with Bucky cradled in his arms both times, he’d forgotten.

“That’s not an explanation as to why they were in my office in the first place, or why the fuck you’re getting off at work. Or are you— _oh, god,_ please tell me you aren’t fucking him at work.”

“ _No!_ Of course I’m not.”

“But the scent in here… It _is_ his. You _are_ fucking him. “

“No... not anymore. It was just once—one night. “

“He’s a patient, Steve! I know it’s your name on the lease, but mine is right by yours on the door, along with my reputation. With Pietro’s treatments, I can’t afford to lose this job under a cloud of a possible patient abuse scandal, even if it’s not my patient. That shit sticks, and being your partner, it’s going to stick to me, too.”

“No, I know, and I really am sorry, Clint. But he’s not my patient, not anymore. He, uh, fired me.”

“Really?” Clint scoffs, eyes still flashing dangerously. “Was that before or after he sat on your knot?”

Steve winces. “Before.”

Clint shakes his head, anger still steaming from him. “This could be your career. He could report you, sue you…or worse. Why the hell would you risk your livelihood _— and mine_—by sleeping with him? Couldn’t you wait until after his treatments? Were you really that fucking desperate?”

A match ignites inside Steve, catching on the Novocaine-steeped emptiness inside him, burning white-hot with a toxic mix of frustration and rage. “ _Yes!_ Okay? Yes!” he shouts. “The guy of my— _literally_ of my dreams was on his knees in front of me, and I gave in. I was selfish and stupid and wasn’t strong enough to resist the rut-lust and, Jesus, Clint, I know I fucked up, okay?”

Clint gapes at him before dropping his head into his hands. “You went into rut? Oh, Christ. How is it possible that it keeps getting _worse?_ ”

“It wasn’t—”

“ _No!_ Just _stop_ —you need to stop talking,” Clint mutters, shaking his head as he lifts it. “It’s like you saved up all your stupid points and spent them in one day. An omega in heat telling his doctor that’s in rut he’s fired so you two can fuck isn’t going to hold much water at an ethics tribunal, or help you fight a forcible sexual advances charge, Rogers. I know that probably pales in comparison to getting your knot wet in soulmate boy, but—” Clint breaks off as Steve ducks his head. “Fuck, Steve,” he sighs. “It’s just _a lot_.”

“I know. But I think—” Steve swallows thickly. He’d wanted to have this conversation with Bucky, but the confession is a live wire inside him, sparking through him, looking for grounding. If he doesn’t say the words out loud, he’s afraid he never will, and it will be like it never happened, like it never meant anything. “I think I’m in love with him.”

“ _Steve._ You don’t even know him.”

_“I do,”_ Steve says quietly before turning away from Clint. He wrings the soiled clothes in his hands before tossing them on the table. After resetting his overturned chair, he sinks back into it and fixes earnest eyes on Clint. “I know he’s sweet and kind and thoughtful, and he’s had a lifetime of people telling and showing him that he’s not good enough, when the reality is he’s one of the most pure-hearted people I’ve ever met. He has no idea how special he is, _none._ But he’s witty and clever and bright and talented. And, god, I want him in my life—not as a patient or a lover, but as a _mate._ I thought _you_ out of everyone would understand. I remember how gone you were when you met Pietro.”

Clint sighs but doesn’t shift from his spot across the room. “Yeah,” he concedes. “I fell in love with him the second I saw him, you’re right, and maybe I’m wrong, and you _are_ in love with Bucky. But Steve, Pietro wasn’t my _patient._ I wasn’t in a position of power over him. It’s different.”

“I didn’t take advantage of Bucky,” Steve says quickly. “Not as a doctor, at least, I helped him. And, okay, maybe I didn’t go about it the best way, but I didn’t hurt him.” Steve parses the assertion through his brain, testing its authenticity. There’s no guilt or shame, and he knows it’s the truth; he hadn’t caused Bucky harm at the clinic, he hadn’t hurt him _until last night._

“It doesn’t matter. You can’t be his doctor anymore.”

Steve trails his fingers over the stains on the table. “I know.”

“I’m serious. I will report you myself if you—”

“Jesus, Barton, _I know!”_

Clint blows out a long breath, his anger seeming to finally burn itself out before he crosses the room and drops into the chair beside Steve, taking care not to touch the tabletop. “Alright, so. Is it… I mean, are you two…” he nods toward the bedroom. “Is Bucky…?”

Steve shakes his head. “I don’t know if I scared him by going feral, or if he was only looking to—” his lips tip up in a small, sad smile “—scratch an itch. But, it doesn’t matter; he doesn’t feel the same way I do." He blows out a long breath. "And I don’t know how to deal with the fact that I got everything I wanted for one amazing, perfect night… and lost it the next day.”

“Aw, shit, Steve. I’m sorry, man. Bucky is okay, though, right?”

“I don’t know,” Steve answers truthfully. “He left and then wouldn’t open the door. Maybe I should try again...”

Clint hums thoughtfully. “If he wanted to talk to you today, he would have answered the door when you knocked the first time—or the first dozen times, knowing you. He probably just needs a little space and time to sort through everything. You know how intense a rut is, now imagine being on the receiving end of—” he gestures vaguely “—all of that.”

Steve swallows around the sudden tightness in his throat. The numbed veneer is beginning to shift, pain and grief seeping up through the cracks. He jolts to his feet abruptly. “He called me _Stevie._ ”

“Wh—uh, please hold while I do a mental one-eighty. Where the hell did that come from?”

“Last night. Bucky called me _Stevie._ I thought that meant something. Doesn’t it mean something? No one’s ever given me a nickname, not, I mean, not in a relationship—and god, I know this isn’t a relationship, but it’s a term of endearment, a… well, it’s a sort of verbal claim, right? Not even during the three years I was with—”

“—Don’t you dare say his name,” Clint groans. “Today is hell enough without you summoning the devil. But you need to calm down, take a breath, you’re starting to spiral, bud.”

“Yeah,” Steve breathes out shakily, hating the aching in the back of his throat and the burning of his eyes that prove Clint’s point. “Yeah.” He turns away, his feet moving on autopilot, taking him to the breakfast bar. Busying his hands, he opens the brown paper bags and begins to lift out the styrofoam boxes full of now-cold breakfast items.

He eyes the table, his gaze catching on the stained surface, and his cheeks heat uncomfortably as something deep and raw frays inside his chest. He piles the boxes on the bench instead, before reaching in to pull out more.

“What’s all this?” Clint’s voice from directly beside him makes Steve startle.

“Oh, uh, breakfast,” Steve states the obvious with a tense shrug. “Help yourself while I go get dressed, and then you can give me a ride to work.”

“Whoa, no, you can put a pin in that ridiculous idea right now. You are _not_ coming to work today.”

“What are you talking about? You were just complaining about having to see my patients.”

“Yeah, but I’ll be complaining more when you fuck up a routine procedure and expose us to another potential lawsuit, trust me.”

Steve bristles. “You’re forgetting that while I’m your best friend, I’m also your boss, and it’s _my_ practice. I’m going to work,” Steve snaps. Truthfully, he needs the distraction. If left to his own devices, he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself from camping outside Bucky’s door again and round out the last twenty-four hours by being slapped with a restraining order.

“Yeah, well, as your best friend I’m telling you that in the past couple of days, you’ve choked the chicken at work, forgotten to even show up for work, gone into rut, fallen in love, gotten kinda dumped and spent a week’s worth of wages on breakfast items, and that’s just the questionable decisions I know about. I think it’s in your best interest to listen to me for once. Bucky isn’t the only one that needs time to process everything that’s happened, Steve. Just... take the day, work through whatever shit is going on in there—” Clint points to Steve’s head “—and maybe scrub down your kitchen table, and Febreze the whole place while you’re at it.”

Steve doesn’t give Clint the satisfaction of telling him he’s right; he doesn’t need to—Clint plucks one of the containers from his hands with a knowing smile and heads for the door.

“I’ll drop by after work, make sure you haven’t eaten yourself into a coma,” Clint warns before he disappears through the door.

Steve isn’t sure how Clint does that, read his thoughts like a large-print book, but confronted with a day spent alone, directly above Bucky, he has to admit it’s a tempting thought—to push his feelings down with food and disappear into the oblivion of sleep… if his stomach would unclench for long enough to let him fill it with food. He flips open the container in his hand and stares down at the flaky, crescent-shaped pastries. They look like a pair of parentheses curled around each other... just like he and Bucky had been this morning.

Sadness slams into him, so intense it strangles the air from his lungs, and he staggers forward, only just making it to his chair before he crumples. The flood of emotion bubbles up, and he squeezes his eyes closed against the onslaught. He pulls in one shaky breath after the next, trying to keep the heat in his eyes from welling up and spilling over. He knows he shouldn’t feel this way, fighting back tears over a man he’s—for all intents and purposes—only just met, but he can’t shake the certainty that he’s lost all his hopes and dreams for the future between one heartbeat and the next.

The agony in his chest is beyond muscle, beyond bone, carved deep into his very soul, and with it comes the unassailable knowing that he’s wrought this himself--he’s trapped in misery of his own making. He’s made his bed, and now he must lie in it—his sugar-scented bed, empty and cold… just like his heart.


	11. An Unexpected Complication

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Chapter count has been updated. I think we're back on track with Bucky's timeline/POV now. But, don't hate me if it gets bumpd up one more before the end.

“Are you sure you’re up for this? I can pull double duty again if you want to spend another day lazing on the couch watching Golden Girls reruns.”

Steve rolls his eyes at his best friend. “That’s more _your_ speed, Barton, but for the tenth time in ten minutes, _I’m okay_. I took your advice—” he sighs heavily at Clint’s smug smile “—and spent some quality time in my head.” 

“Well, it’s about time you listened to me. I’ve been Jiminying on your shoulder since Med School, I’m shocked it’s taken you this long to realize I’m always right,” Clint teases before his smile drops, the playful facade falling with it. “But really, Steve. I’m proud of you. But if you need a sympathetic ear or someone to drown your sorrows with after work tonight, I’m available, alright?”

Steve flashes a tight-lipped smile before turning away, busying himself unlocking the doors, and letting them inside the clinic. Clint claps him on the back before setting off down the hallway to his office, a replacement set of emergency clothes—both items a garish purple—clutched in his hand.

After clicking on the lights, Steve settles into Wanda’s chair behind the reception desk and boots up the computer. He checks over his shoulder to make sure Clint is still in his office as he drums his fingers next to the mouse.

He hadn’t lied to Clint, not technically—he _had_ spent the day sorting through the chaos in his head while scrubbing every trace of Bucky from his apartment. Or, _almost_ every trace. He’d scoured his kitchen table three times, leaving soft scratches in the dark wood, bleached his recliner and the carpet, washed his sheets twice, and pushed down his guilt at throwing out every single breakfast item untouched. But he couldn’t bring himself to throw away the painting of Bucky. Instead, he sat and stared at it for hours.

The grief came in waves, swells high enough to drown him, leaving him gasping for breath as tears burned his eyes, fighting for release. They won their freedom, spilling over his cheeks with his heart thundering in his rib cage until the pain ebbed, and he was back to feeling like a hollowed-out version of himself again.

He didn’t know which was worse.

The sun was low on the horizon when he finally drowned out the grumbling of his stomach with six beers in short order and dragged himself into bed—his _empty_ bed. The fresh sheets smelling of the clean scent he’d always loved no longer a balm to his nerves, but an irritant needling into his brain, a constant reminder of what he’d lost. But he stayed in the pain of his own making, revisiting the whole night from the moment Bucky walked into his apartment until he had found him gone, over and over again, until it played without his bidding—a barrage of phantom scents, sights, and sounds tearing through him—ravaging him until the blissful oblivion of sleep had claimed him.

The mercy was fleeting, though, and he’d spent the four hours before dawn watching the red numbers of his alarm clock tick over with nothing to do but think.

It hadn’t been in vain.

Surrounded in nothing but darkness and regret, he’d finally had to admit to himself that he's deep in the throes of bonding sickness. After hours spent turning the thought over in his mind for hours, desperately seeking another—any other—explanation, he had come up empty. Nothing else could account for everything from his increased sensitivity to Bucky’s scent to his alpha instincts lighting up so quickly and intensely— _his body believes he’s already bonded to Bucky._ His mind may be mourning a forfeited future, but his body is grieving the severed connection of a lost mate.  
  
And yet...

Through the constant ache in his chest, a glimmer of faith refuses to surrender completely. It’s a fool’s hope, he knows, but the shadow it casts is one he can’t escape. It would be so much easier to inject himself with the cocktail of synthetic hormones to break the pseudo-bonding, or at least mask the symptoms, but despite the sharp edges slicing into him, Steve can’t let go of the shards of broken dreams embedded in his heart.

At least, not _yet.  
_  
Trying to ignore the churning in his gut, Steve pulls up Bucky’s patient file.  
  
He needs to know for sure that Bucky isn't interested, needs to hear it from _him_. He can't move on, can't let go until he knows with absolute certainty that Bucky doesn't feel the same spark dancing through his skin each time they touch. But he needs to approach it delicately. If Bucky really does regret their night together, showing up on his doorstep and forcing him to confront his shame isn’t a fair position to put him in. Which leaves only one option—another line crossed.

“You’re in my seat,” Wanda calls as she strolls through the door, adjusting the bag on her shoulder.

Steve lifts his phone and snaps a picture of Bucky’s details before closing the file. “I think, since I’m the one that purchased it, it’s technically _mine_ ,” he shoots back, but unfolds himself from the red chair all the same.

Wanda eyes him suspiciously as she brushes past him to reclaim her seat, dropping the bag at her feet. “You alright, boss?”

Steve just gives her a quick nod before fleeing with fingers clutched tight around his phone. He’s sure his flushed skin, beaded with sweat at his hairline, and the vein jumping in his neck is broadcasting his guilt to anyone within sight, but he makes it to his office without being called on it, and he closes his door quickly, not wanting to push his luck.

He's so keyed up that even sinking into his own chair doesn’t bring the usual calming relief, and he drops his phone onto his desk like a hot coal. The worst part is over. Now, all he has to do is text Bucky and ask him out.

He had spent the whole of the drive to work ignoring Clint prattling on in the passenger seat beside him, going over possible messages to send to Bucky. Asking if he'd like to have dinner had been the best idea out of a lot of bad ideas. It's simple, to the point, requires nothing more than a yes or no answer. There could be no confusion or misinterpretation—either Bucky wanted to see him again, or he didn’t.  
  
The blank screen stares up at him, and a pit forms in his stomach as he unlocks it and pulls up the photo. The fact his hand doesn’t shake as he copies the number down onto the pad on his desk stirs a small measure of pride. He enters the digits into his phone and checks, double checks, and triple checks it before adding Bucky’s name.

With his heart beating wildly in his throat, he opens a new message, adds Bucky to the recipient field, and—

The door swings open, and Clint’s head pokes into the room. “Yo, Steve, your stupid coffee maker is acting up again. Can you come and work your magic, please? I've not had caffeine in almost an hour, _somebody_ ate my entire stash of Butterfingers, and I’m in desperate need for an energy boost.” His eyes dart to the phone in Steve’s hands. “Unless… Am I interrupting something?”

“I—uh, no, it’s fine.” Steve clicks the screen off and places the phone back on the desk. “Nothing that won’t keep.” It’s too early in the morning for potentially life-altering texts anyway. He’ll fix the machine, get Clint caffeinated, and then he’ll text Bucky.

He will.

He has to.

_He doesn’t._

The whole morning had been a rush of patients, and printers needing cartridge changes, and he had to order a fresh batch of protein vials—they were down to their last two boxes—and a dozen other little things that his brain assured him were urgent.

But now, his one-thirty appointment had rescheduled, and he’s spending his spare five minutes before he has to go and sign off on Clint and Pietro’s paperwork by staring down at the message on his phone, finger hovering above the _send_ button.

“Boss, they’re ready for you,” Wanda calls out in a bored voice from the doorway.

“I’ll be right there.” Steve doesn’t take his eyes off the phone, his gut churning. He _could_ just press _send_ now and have a reply by the time he gets back. He should; he’d put this off too long already. Except… he should wait. That way, he can reply immediately if Bucky does.  
  
It's a thinly veiled excuse, and the small voice in the back of his mind whispers _coward_ too loudly to ignore, but still, he leaves the phone and heads to Clint’s office.

Steve reads through Clint’s assessment quickly, scrawling his signature in all the appropriate places. “Any problems today?”

“Nope. I am loaded up with enough protein and hormones to last a lifetime, or, you know, twenty-four hours,” Pietro grins. 

“What are you talking about,” Clint hums, wrapping his arms around Pietro and pulling him close to press a kiss to his neck. “You’re gonna be filled with even <em>more</em> protein when I get home.”

Pietro laughs and swats at his mate playfully, though he melts into the embrace. “Don’t act like I’m a sure thing, baby. You need to woo me. Bring me some roses, and then I’ll think about it.”

Steve’s happiness for his friends is tinged with selfish sadness, but he pushes his lips up in the best approximation of a smile he can manage. “If you keep this up, you’ll be with pup in no time.”

Pietro rests his hands on his belly. “From your lips to the universe’s ear, Steve.”

Bon Jovi’s ‘ _You Give Love a Bad Name_ ’ blares from Clint’s desk, and he releases Pietro to collect his phone, the source of the noise. “Insurance. Again,” Clint sighs, scowling at the screen. “I’ve gotta take this. Steve can you see my beloved out?” 

“I know the way. I’ve been here so often in the past month I could do it backward and blindfolded,” Pietro grins. “Steve probably has patients—”

<em>“You</em> are my patient, too, by rights, and it would be my honor to walk you out.” Steve sweeps the door open and motions Pietro through before following behind. “Now that we’re away from overbearing ears, how are things going, really? Any more fevers, depression, cramping?”

Pietro shrugs nonchalantly as he falls into step beside Steve, walking down the corridor to reception. “Not really, nothing I can’t handle. Hopefully, ramping up the procedures this week won’t change that.”

“If it does, and you need to take a break at any time, tell one of us, okay? We’ll figure something else out.”

“Yeah, I know. Thanks, Steve. You’ve been a truly wonderful support through all of this.”

“That’s what I’m—” Steve breaks off, coming to a standstill as a familiar voice registers in his mind.

“—but you’ve undercharged me. This isn’t—”

Steve's entire world shrinks and explodes at the same time, and he swallows harshly around his heart, now lodged firmly in his throat. _“Bucky?”_

Bucky spins on the spot awkwardly, tripping over his own feet, his eyes going wide as his mouth drops open, and Steve steps forward, arms outstretched, ready to grab him, to stop his fall. But Bucky halts his momentum with one hand gripping the high curve of the reception desk and lifts the other, palm out, fingers splayed—the universal signal for _stop_ —toward Steve.

Steve’s muscles are practically vibrating under his skin, coiled tight with tension but denied the instinct to move, but he grants Bucky’s wordless request and steps back, forcing his arms down by his sides. His eyes don't leave Bucky’s face, though, narrowing on the pinched brow.

“Same time tomorrow?”

Pietro’s question snaps the thread of connection, and grudginly, Steve turns his attention to the omega by his side. He nods. “Yeah, Pietro, that would be great.”

The hand on his arm—that he hadn’t even noticed—squeezes before it lifts. But Steve’s eyes are drawn back to Bucky before Pietro’s warm smile has faded, watching Bucky slide his thumb across the sheet of paper trembling in his hand. There’s a quiet gasp as the paper slices into flesh and red rushes to soak into the bright white paper.

Clenching his jaw so hard it aches, Steve battles back the instinct to rush forward and take matters—and Bucky—into his own hands. He wants to scoop Bucky up, carry him bridal-style into his office, prop him on the table and fuss over him; clean the wound, tape it up, and kiss it better— _and it’s just a fucking paper cut_. Instead, he pulls in a deep breath and tries his best to keep his voice level. “Are you okay?”

Bucky’s nose wrinkles adorably, his lips pursing before pulling down in a frown. “What are you doing here? I thought you had a week off.” The accusation in Bucky’s voice knocks Steve wholly off balance.

“I did, but uh, as it turns out, I didn’t need the week, after all.” The clinic is empty save his next patient, tucked away in the corner paying them no mind, but still, Steve’s neck warms uncomfortably, realizing he can’t come out and say if it weren’t for Bucky, he’d still be on rut-leave. Scott may be engrossed in his reading, but Steve can feel Wanda’s open curiosity settling over him. She’s probably making a mental list of questions to interrogate him with later. Steve motions to the blood running down Bucky’s hand. “Here, let me clean that up for you.”

“No, it’s…” Bucky follows Steve’s gaze and frowns. “Oh.” He curls his hand into a fist around his injured thumb.

“Doctor Rogers, your two o’clock is already here,” Wanda says sweetly.

Alarm bells go off inside Steve’s head at both the official title and the tone, but he doesn’t take his eyes off Bucky, half-convinced he’ll disappear the moment he does. “Thanks, Wanda. Please let Mr. Lang know I’ll be with him shortly.” Without waiting for a rebuke from Wanda or an excuse from Bucky, Steve motions the omega toward his office.

Bucky hesitates for three short, sharp heartbeats before stepping around Steve and making his way quickly down the hallway.

Steve lengthens his stride to fall into step beside him, casting furtive looks his way, but Bucky’s gaze doesn’t waver, staring straight ahead, boring into his door. The silence is heavy, awkward, and Steve can’t for the life of him think of what to say, but it doesn’t matter—Bucky’s mere presence has soothed the ache in his soul, having his missing piece returned, if only for a moment. And for the first time since he’d come home to find Bucky gone, Steve pulls a full breath into his lungs.

At the door to his office, Steve moves ahead, holding it open. His chest twinges painfully as Bucky turns his body as he enters, making sure to keep a thick cushion of space between them. But once he’s inside, and Steve’s closed the door, his heart kicks up pace, trying to break through his ribcage, remembering what happened the last time he’d been alone with Bucky in this room.

As if having the same thought, Bucky’s cheeks blush prettily, and he drops his gaze to the floor, staining the hem of his grey shirt red as he twists it between bloodied fingers.

Steve uses the minute it takes to gather supplies to clean up Bucky’s finger to wrangle his scattered thoughts into some semblance of control. He’s immensely grateful he didn’t send that text earlier, now he can get the answer directly from Bucky.

A tremor skitters down his spine as he adds a bandaid to the tray, knowing that for better or worse, his life is about to change.

It takes a moment for those light eyes to lift when he’s standing back in front of Bucky, but when they do, they’re swirling with a galaxy of emotions, bright and raw, and Steve’s nerve falters.

“Why are you at the clinic? Is everything alright?”

Bucky nods jerkily. “I, uh, my bill. I came to get it fixed.”

Steve frowns, eyes flicking to the piece of paper clutched in Bucky’s uninjured hand. But that can wait. The cut on Bucky’s thumb is still bleeding, and Steve has to bite back the urge to start throwing questions at him, wanting to know _why_. Certain medications have a blood-thinning effect, but Bucky isn’t on any, at least according to his file. Still, Steve doesn’t think Bucky will take kindly to a medical review from his not-doctor.

“May I?” He nods to Bucky’s still-curled fist.

Bucky hesitates again before granting the request, lifting his hand and holding it palm-up. Grateful he’d had the forethought to open the packages, Steve takes a prepared swab and runs it over the mess. He works slowly from the wrist up, lifting the red stains from Bucky’s skin, pausing before he gets to the actual cut.

Steve’s hand fits perfectly under Bucky’s as he cups it, keeping it aloft, and a tremor shoots through Bucky at the contact. It feeds into Steve like life support, strengthening the fragile hope in his heart. His eyes snap up to Bucky’s, but dark lashes are lowered, his gaze locked on their joined hands.  
  
“This might sting a little,” Steve warns.

Bucky hisses as Steve wipes over the broken skin, but doesn’t flinch away.

“Sorry,” Steve murmurs apologetically, trading the wipe for a band-aid. Reluctantly, he lifts his hand from Bucky’s to remove the plastic tabs before smoothing the plaster strip in place. His hands linger, fighting the impulse to bring Bucky’s hand to his lips to press them against the hidden, injured skin. He could say everything he needs to and isn’t sure he can with a single gesture… But without knowing if that would be welcome, he can’t risk distressing Bucky more than he already has. He lifts his hands. “All done.”

“Thanks.” Bucky looks back down to his thumb, running his index finger over the blue strip.

Steve's gaze remains on Bucky, and the just-out-of-the-shower damp locks clinging together in soft waves, filling the room with the sweet scent of raspberry shampoo. He yearns to run his hands through the strands and tug Bucky close, capture those pink lips, and finally taste them. And if Bucky was _his_ he could do that. All he has to do is open his mouth and ask Bucky out. He could put an end to his misery right here. But his courage steals away with the words, and he hears himself say, “So, your bill?”

“Oh, yeah. There’s been a mistake.” Bucky frowns as he holds out the paper.

Steve’s hand lands beside Bucky’s, close enough to feel the heat from his skin, hesitating only a moment before sliding the paper from between Bucky’s fingers. “I’ll take care of it.”

“Uh, when? I just, I’d like to do everything at once while I’m here if possible.”

“Don’t worry about it. It wasn’t supposed to go out to you in the first place. I’ll take care of it.”

Bucky finally looks up at that, meeting Steve’s gaze, brows pinched. “That’s not _— no_. That’s exactly the _opposite_ of…” he huffs, his fingers making pretty tracks through his hair. He huffs out another irritated sound before tugging the damp strands up and securing them with the band he pulls from his wrist. “Look, I asked the receptionist to fix the charges to include both visits and all six sessions, but she said you had to do it, and I just… I would feel a lot better if you could put what I actually owe you on the bill, so it doesn’t feel like you gave me a discount for, I don’t know, _services rendered_ , like some strange sexual barter system,” Bucky blurts out, eyes flashing angrily.

The accusation hits Steve in the chest, but it’s the sight of the yellowing bruise on Bucky’s neck, right over his bonding gland where Steve had marked him not forty-eight hours before, that has his breath catching in his throat.

“Bucky, I would _never_...” Bucky’s face pinches tighter, pain bleeding through the cracks of anger, and Steve reaches out before forcibly recoiling his hand. If Bucky thinks he’s capable of _that_... all hope _may_ be lost. How could he explain to Bucky that it had nothing to do with his rut; he had made a note after the first day, one that Wanda must have not seen or ignored. Comping patients is not unheard of, and he hadn't wanted to trigger any distress Bucky may still be harboring from the appointment with the invoice. He clears his throat roughly, digging his nails into his palms. “You were only charged for one standard session because, according to the system, that’s all you had; that’s all the emergency appointment was scheduled for. There’s no way to retroactively slot you into the system where there were no available appointments.” Steve’s voice sounds as hollow as he feels, but the anger in Bucky’s face is lifting, giving way to suspicious confusion.

“I don’t understand. There _were_ appointments, I remember, I was here.”

Steve looks down at the sheet of paper now crumpled in his fist. He smoothes it out before laying it on his desk, letting it fall over his phone.

Having Bucky so close is sweet torture, and all Steve wants to do is pull him into his arms, hold him close and never let him go. He shoves his hands into his pants pockets. “That first day, you were scheduled for a standard, twenty-minute appointment. It’s why I had to keep leaving you; I had to see my other patients while you were receiving the protein.” Steve tries to blink away the memories playing out before his open eyes, shifting uncomfortably on his feet. “The second day, I had no available appointments, so I brought you in with me before the clinic was open.”

Bucky’s mouth drops open before snapping shut, then opening again only to close wordlessly once more. He shakes his head. “But… why would you do that?”

Steve’s brow furrows. Surely Bucky knows? He _has_ to. The minute Bucky had fallen into his arms, _literally,_ Steve had been _gone_. Bucky has to know that, must have seen it, _felt_ it, surely. Has to know that Steve would have done anything to keep Bucky safe. But how can he lay that on Bucky's shoulders?

“Because you needed it.”

Bucky's shoulders sag slightly as a small, sad smile curves his lips. “Um, thank you for that. But if you _could_ find a way to, I don’t know, schedule me in for a future appointment and charge me for the right amount of sessions or something? Oh, and then, uh, cancel them after you’ve made the invoice,” Bucky adds in a rush, color flooding his face. “I know what you said, um, about me seeing another doctor, but I know that was, uh, just… so, I think it’s a good idea.” He stumbles over the words as one hand drops low to rub over his belly.  
  
Steve’s eyes narrow and chase the movement.

For a moment, the world flares white around the edges, and his heart stutters under his ribs painfully. “Bucky... why did you come into the clinic today?

“What do you mean?”

Wheels start spinning in Steve’s head, picking up pace until they fly off their axels completely. His breaths come a little quicker and he has to fight to keep his voice even. “You said you wanted to do _everything_ while you were here, all at once. Did you have an appointment for…” he swallows dryly around the sudden lump in his throat “…for something?”

The knock on the door make Steve startle, but it’s the scent of alpha, not quite hidden by dark roast coffee filling his nose that makes him spin toward it, taking two steps forward and bodily blocking Bucky from view, muscles coiled, ready to fight.

“Hey, Steve, I—” In the doorway, Clint freezes, his smile dropping as he holds up a placating hand “—oh… down boy, it’s just me.”

The tension breaks from Steve's body, his mind finally registering the bonded alpha and rejecting him as a threat, but still, Steve can’t make his feet move. “Whatever this is, it will have to wait, Clint. I’m busy.”

“Well, what a coincidence, I’m supposed to be busy, too, but Wanda so helpfully informed me that you have my two-thirty.”

“Your two—what?” Steve blinks at him stupidly, trying to shake off his alpha instincts and reset into doctor mode.

“My two-thirty appointment. Mister Barnes, is it? I’m Clint Barton, your much less attractive but much more competent doctor for this afternoon.” Clint’s words are light, designed to put Bucky at ease, but Steve can hear the thread of steel woven through them—that part is solely for _him._ “If Steve here is done doing… whatever it is he’s doing," his eyes, glittering darkly, flick to Steve's, “I’ll show you to my office and we can get started.”

“No, we’re not—” Steve starts, but Wanda pokes her head under Clint’s arm and cuts him off.

“I’m sorry, Boss, but Mr. Lang is asking how long you’ll be. He has to pick his daughter up soon and wants to know if he needs to reschedule.”

Steve sighs. _Fuck._ “Sorry, Wanda, tell him I’ll only be a—”

“No, tell him now is fine, I was just leaving,” Bucky says, stepping around Steve, edging toward Clint, avoiding touching them both. He turns a tight smile on Steve. “I’m sorry for taking up so much of your time. If you could fix the bill for me—”

“Bucky, wait—”

“Stop trying to poach my patients, Rogers, and worry about your own.” Clint chuckles, but there’s no amusement in it, just a dark warning. Steve flinches, and Clint’s face softens. “Relax, he’s in good hands. I’ll take care of him.”

The promise is clear, and Steve knows Clint’s right, but the ache in his chest gets worse with every step Bucky takes away from him. Bucky glances back at him just once, eyes brimming with emotion, and Steve nearly gives in to the temptation to grab him and pull him back; get answers to the new questions constricting his heart and the old ones still haunting his lips.

“—oss? _Steve!”_

_“What?”_ Steve snaps. “Shit. Wanda,” he sighs. “What is it?” He asks the question as kindly as he can manage while his heart is hemorrhaging pain.

“Do I show Mr. Lang in or reschedule him?”

“Show him in, and comp him when he leaves, please.”

Wanda nods but doesn’t move from her spot in the doorway. “You sure you don’t want to cut out early? Maybe take the weekend to remember how not to be an ass?”

_”Wanda.”_

“No, look, Steve, I know you’re my boss, but you’re usually a cool boss and a good guy, but lately… I don’t know, you’re _different._ If you repeat this to anyone, I will deny it and report you as unfit to practice medicine due to persistent delusions, but… I’m worried about you.”

The unexpected confession touches him, and Steve offers her a small but genuine smile. “Thanks, kid. I appreciate it, but I’m okay. It’s just been a long week. I’m sorry for snapping… again," he sighs. “I'll try harder.”

Wanda doesn’t look convinced, but she shrugs. “You can make it up to me by letting me appropriate some of the baby gear from the supply cupboard. Nothing big, just maybe one of those fancy forehead thermometers, maybe some diapers and… whatever else baby-appropriate things are available.”

Steve scrambles to follow the abrupt change in direction, but suddenly the earlier sweet tone makes sense. “Why would you need that?”

“For Pietro.”

“But Pietro’s not pregnant yet.”

“No, but he’s got some baby shower thing to go to on the weekend. We went shopping, but you wouldn’t believe how hard it is to find a gender-neutral gift, even in this day and age. It’s unbelievable. People really should have the decency to tell you the gender—”

Steve turns away from the door and rushes to his desk, yanking open the second drawer and rummaging around inside. Finally, he finds the folded cardstock and straightens it. The origami stars are a little worse for wear, but he has eyes only for the party’s date— _in two days._

The wings of hope, bent but not broken, begin to flutter weakly in his chest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ii. For sneak peeks and gifs and spoilers and mini fics and flying plot bunnies, feel free to stop by my tumblr [@thewaythatwerust](https://thewaythatwerust.tumblr.com/)


	12. Treatment Plan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Are you hungry for more angst? Excellent! Please nibble at will. 
> 
> ii. Just remember, it's always darkest before the dawn. We're almost at the happily ever after... and maybe a little sexytime send-off for good measure. ;) <33

The past forty-eight hours have reduced Steve’s life to the soaring highs and sickening drops of an emotional roller coaster.

Friday was a low of _distraction_ —so caught up in his thoughts, he’d almost forgotten to load the protein vial for Scott’s treatment— _disappointment_ —Bucky had been gone before Steve had seen Scott out to reception—and _disapproval_ —Clint had not said more than a dozen words to him for the rest of the day or on the ride home.

But it was the _despair_ that hit the hardest.  
  
Trying to unravel the mystery surrounding Bucky’s visit had almost been Steve’s undoing. The memory of Bucky’s hand on his belly seared itself behind Steve’s eyelids, but the fleeting fancy of pregnancy was quickly overshadowed by more sinister speculation. The gesture could have been borne of pain, and knowing that he could’ve hurt Bucky physically, especially after what he’d done during their night together, ate away at him until he’d been swallowed up in so much anguish he could hardly breathe.

Sleep had been hard-won that night, neverending regrets and what-ifs spiraling through his mind until exhaustion had finally claimed him.

  
  


Saturday morning came too quickly, stealing away the visions of Bucky in his arms, but bringing with it the familiar scent of sugar cookies dancing in the air. His dream had chased away the dread of the day before, reminding him of sheets soiled only with pleasure, and tempting him with tantalizing glimpses of what life could be if only he can be brave enough.

Steve had climbed from the sleep-warmed sheets, ignoring the need between his legs begging for attention, choosing instead the half-finished portrait awaiting him in the living room. He’d long known he could never capture Bucky’s essence on the canvas, had spent hours searching the strokes for ways to do it and finding no answers. But with fresh eyes and a light heart, he’d realized he didn’t need to. He could capture _his_ essence instead—pour his feelings out into the paint, show the galaxy of stars paling under Bucky’s glow, let Bucky see himself through Steve’s eyes.

The sugar scent drifting under his door had been irresistible, and for a moment, Steve had let himself pretend. Eyes closed, he’d imagined Bucky in his kitchen, not a floor below—imagined that he could just walk up behind the beautiful omega, wrap arms around that slim waist and pull him close, press a kiss to his neck before scooping him up and carrying him back to bed.

He’d been on the upward pull of the roller coaster, giddy with possibilities as he’d given himself over to the fantasy and lifted his brush.

  
  


Now, with one hand on his door handle and one clutching the small white box—Jane’s gift—Steve’s heart is in his throat, feeling very much like he’s perched at the top of the ride, teetering on the edge of disaster.

Excited chattering filters through his door, and he knows despite it being half an hour before the time carefully printed on the invitation, the party has already started. Squaring his shoulders and swallowing around his heart, Steve leaves his apartment and heads for Darcy’s.

The weight of appraising glances lands heavy on his shoulders, but he doesn’t spare an ounce of focus to the other guests as he steps around them, moving with purpose through the open doorway, already scanning the room for Bucky.

It had been agony to wait, but he knew Jane’s party would be neutral ground, a chance to approach Bucky on equal footing. He can just be Steve, and Bucky can just be Bucky, and they can have a fresh start—the start they should have had a month ago.

“Steve! You came!” Jane’s delighted voice rises above the conversations of the other guests grouped around the room, and she waves him over. With one hand cradling her swollen belly, she's beaming, standing by a large table already peppered with gifts.

Joy of his own sparks inside Steve as he passes another large table, adorned with empty plates and a three-tiered stand. He’d wanted to come early to catch Bucky setting up, and so far, his plan is holding.

“That isn’t for me, is it?”

Jane’s question pulls Steve’s attention, and he follows her line of sight to the small white box. “Of course it is. Can’t come to a party without a gift.” He presses the present into Jane’s hands.

“Oh, Steve, thank you, but you didn’t have to do this; you’ve already given us more than enough,“ Jane says fondly. “Steve, this is Natasha, Carol, and I believe you’ve already met Darcy,” she says, lips twitching.

“Oh, yeah, we go way back,” Darcy says with a smile and no hint of sourness after the previous rejection.

“Girls, this is my miracle worker, Doctor Steve Rogers from ORS.”

“Wait. _You’re_ Doctor Steve? _The_ Doctor Steve?” Natasha’s brows shoot up toward her hairline.

“Uh, I guess it depends on who you ask. It's a fairly common name, so…” Steve trails off as the red head’s brows reset, and her eyes narrow, raking down his body. He tries not to fidget under the unnerving gaze.

“Well, shit. Definitely worth two cheesecakes.”

Steve frowns, not understanding the reference. “Sorry, I don’t—”

“Oh, my god, _Steve!”_ Jane gasps, lifting the small 3d printed figurine from the box Steve had handed her. The glass catches the light as she turns it, highlighting the bean-shaped curve of the womb and reflecting off the precious body tucked inside it—from the delicate little nose down to the chubby little legs folded to his belly. “It’s so beautiful,” she murmurs, glistening eyes fixed on the replica of her ultrasound made tangible. The tears spill over as she steps forward and wraps an arm around Steve’s back, pressing her face to his chest in an awkward but heartfelt side-hug. “Thank you so much,” she whispers before stepping back, wiping the spilled tears away with the back of her hand. “I should have waited for T, but I’ll just blame my impatience on pregnancy hormones,” she winks.

Steve chuckles. “I’m happy you like it. The company that makes them had a booth at the last expo I attended. I thought it was a sweet idea.”

“Was that the Stark MedExpo?” Carol asks suddenly.

Steve nods, angling toward the pretty blonde alpha. “That’s the one.”

“Any updates on that fem-alpha protein harvester? I’ve been searching online but it seems you need a bunch of letters at the end of your name to get anywhere.”

“Yeah, they tend to keep things quiet until it’s time to take your money,” Steve grins. “They were in the last stages of trials last year, and if everything went as planned, they should have some units ready for order at this year’s expo.”

“And when's that?”

“In a few weeks. If you’re interested—” Steve breaks off. He twists his neck to the doorway, but the sweet scent filling his lungs confirms Bucky’s arrival before Steve’s gaze finds him peeking around an armful of plastic containers, trying to maneuver around the human hazard course separating him from the table. “Ah, I’m sorry, but I have to go. If you’re interested, make an appointment with the clinic, any time after the 27th, and I’ll be able to go through your options with you.”

Carol smiles, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll see you then.”

Steve nods before turning to Jane. “Thank you for inviting me, I hope the rest of your day is perfect.”

Darcy hums curiously. “What, leaving already? Got a hot date or something?”

“Or something,” Steve winks. “Ladies, if you’ll excuse me.”  
  
He ignores the quiet whisperings as he turns away and slips through the crowd, circling around behind Bucky. “Do you need a hand?”

Bucky startles at the question, stumbling forward into the table, and Steve reacts instinctively, reaching out to grab Bucky’s elbow and redirecting his momentum, pulling him back. The breath rushing from Steve’s lungs has nothing to do with Bucky’s back colliding with his chest.

“Shit, Sorry!” Bucky squeaks, high and breathless.

Steve’s hand falls away as Bucky spins on the spot, biting back a groan as the back pressing against him becomes a chest with not a breath of space between them.

The frantic heartbeat feeding into Steve’s chest is a mirror of his own, but Bucky squeezes his eyes shut and steps back, and Steve curls his hands into fists at his side to keep them from clamping down on Bucky’s waist and keeping him close.

But as the space between them increases, the hope in Steve’s chest doesn’t die but grows as he watches Bucky’s tongue leave a glistening trail over that pretty bottom lip, and dark lashes lift from flushed cheeks to reveal lust-blown pupils.

“Sorry, what was that?” Bucky rasps with a small shake of his head.

“I asked if you needed a hand. With setting up,” Steve clarifies, nodding to the table Bucky had bumped into not two minutes earlier.

Bucky nods for a solid five seconds before his lips part and utters the single word that sends Steve’s heart soaring. “Yes.” Bucky’s eyes edge wide as if his acceptance had surprised himself as well as Steve, and he grimaces. “I, uh, I mean, you don’t have to. You probably want to mingle,” he says weakly, gesturing around the room while taking another step backward.

After waiting days for the opportunity to even breathe the same air as Bucky again, Steve’s not about to surrender this moment without a fight.

“I’m not a huge fan of mingling,” Steve murmurs, bending to collect the container nearest to him. He peels the lid off and smiles down at the tiny treats nestled inside.

Bucky’s gaze burns into Steve’s skin as he steps forward and starts to transfer the macarons from the box to an empty plate on the table, careful to be gentle, not wanting to crush the delicate pastries that Bucky had obviously spent so much time on. He alternates them, pink then blue, like they’d been displayed in the box, marveling at the pretty frilled edges. They’re so perfect they wouldn’t look out of place in a fancy Parisian patisserie. Bucky truly is an incredibly talented guy. “Are you staying once you’re done setting up?” Steve tries to keep his voice light and casual but needs to know how long he has with Bucky. He doesn’t want to rush nor wait and miss his opportunity—again.

“Uh, no. This is _not_ my idea of a good time,” Bucky mutters, his gaze finally lifting, and Steve sneaks a glimpse at him instead, watching him place cupcakes on the stand that he had almost toppled earlier.

Steve sets down the now empty macaron box and very slowly lifts the large, three-tier cake from its carrying box, trapping the small noise of surprise in his throat at the weight. He tightens his fingers on the thick board beneath the bottom-most layer, carefully avoiding getting his fingers anywhere near the shiny, swirling pink and blue icing. He lowers it down gently in pride of place, in the center of the table.

Bucky’s eyes are back on him, but he keeps his own fixed on the towering masterpiece, humming thoughtfully as he takes in the pretty white shards of chocolate decorating the top of the cake like an edible art installation. “Then what is?”

Bucky’s scrutiny breaks with the plastic crack of another container opening. “Well, it’s usually still food-related but with a lot fewer people; cook-outs with friends, or popcorn at the movies, being curled up on the couch watching Netflix with something sugary. Boring stuff.”

“Sounds perfect, actually,” Steve breathes out softly. And god, it really does. Unable to keep his eyes off Bucky any longer, he turns, finding the omega’s gaze and holding it. “But you know, if you put candy on top of the popcorn and it melts, then you get—”

“Sweet and salty.” Bucky’s face goes slack. He looks almost comical—in an utterly adorable way—eyes wide, mouth parted in a small ‘o’, the sugar cookie clutched in his hand held in midair. His throat bobs as he swallows, but still, his voice comes out in a breathy rush. “Nat, um, my best friend thinks I’m weird for doing that.”

Steve’s heart is singing in his chest, finding pure joy not only in having a real conversation with Bucky, but finding out they have shared interests and tastes. The relief rushes to his head and makes him dizzy. “Not weird; _inspired._ ” He inclines his head toward Bucky’s hand, where his fingers are smearing the icing over the heart-shaped cookie. “Speaking of sweet, are those your famous sugar cookies?”

Bucky’s cheeks rush to match the pretty pink icing. “I’d hardly call them famous,” he mumbles, but his lips twitch up at the edges.

“If they’re half as good as your pancakes, they should be.”

Bucky scoffs, but it’s softened with amusement. “You’re far too easily impressed.”

“And you’re incapable of taking a compliment,” Steve shoots back with an easy shrug, smiling as he follows the blush as it climbs slowly down Bucky’s neck.

Bucky makes a considering sound low in his throat. “They make me itchy.”

“Like poison ivy? Because I can give you something for that,” Steve teases, his voice as light as his heart. Something bumps into his arm, and he turns to find the source, frowning as a tall blonde brushes past him. It takes a moment to find his bearings and remember he’s in a room surrounded by other people. He startles at how quickly his world had contracted to exclude everyone and everything but Bucky.

“More like a too-tight sweater.” Bucky’s voice has Steve turning back, his world shrinking once more. “Do you have a prescription for that?” A dark brow arches in challenge.

Steve swallows down the first retort that comes to mind— _yes, take it off_ —and nods. “Mhm, as it so happens, I do; immersion therapy. A day of nothing but compliments to get you desensitized to them. In fact, we can start right now.” He smiles as Bucky’s other eyebrow joins the first, challenge giving way to surprise. “You are an _incredible_ chef, Bucky. Those pancakes are the second sweetest thing I’ve had in my mouth.”

“Wow, great idea, Doctor Steve. Is showering me with runner-up compliments the best you can do, or are you building up to the real deal?” Bucky’s lips are curving up in earnest now, and he shakes his head with a mock-resigned sigh. “Alright, I’ll bite… what was the sweetest thing you’ve ever tasted?”

Steve hadn’t meant to add the caveat in his compliment; it just sort of... slipped out. But now it’s hanging between them—between him and Bucky’s sparkling eyes and beautiful smile—and Steve wants to reel it back in, but his cock throbs to life as the memory of Bucky dances in his mouth. He swipes his tongue over suddenly dry lips, and Bucky’s flush deepens as understanding flickers in his eyes.

_“Oh.”_

A storm of emotion blows across Bucky’s face, sweeping the desire away, and in a matter of seconds, his face hardens. As his shoulders square, the last softness clinging to his body falls away. With pinched brows, the slow breath he blows out heralds nothing good. “You don’t have to do that, you know,” he says softly. “To pretend it was anything other than what it was.” His gaze drops to his hands, to the sugar cookie now a little crumbled around the edges, and the abrupt change in mood knocks Steve completely off-balance.

Unsure of what’s just happened, Steve frowns, searching the face in front of him for the carefree and open Bucky from thirty seconds ago, but he’s disappeared as if he’d never existed. “And what was it?”

“Uh, two friends helping each other out.” Bucky’s voice rises in question, but his eyes stay downcast.

“Friends.” Steve’s gut drops. “Is that what we are?” He can feel the world tremble at his feet, a single word away from falling away completely.

“Well, I’m not your patient anymore, and we’re not dating, but I don’t think acquaintances know each other so… _intimately_. So, yeah, I guess. Friends sounds a lot better than…” Bucky trails off, and Steve’s not sure whether to mourn or revel in the lost words. He’s not sure his heart would have survived Bucky saying _mistake_. “Here, as a friend of the caterer, you get the first cookie of the day,” Bucky says stiffly. “Just, uh, don’t judge me on that one. I’ve been feeling a bit off lately, and they were a last-minute rush-job, so the quality may be a little lacking.”

Bucky holds the cookie out with trembling fingers, and Steve takes it though he couldn’t eat it if he wanted to—he’s sure he’s going to throw up at any second. Everything was going so well and then… then he’d had to go and push the point—bring the past into the present and ruin the future.

He stares at the smeared heart in his hands, ruefully. “Buck—”

“And maybe take one for your date,” Bucky blurts.

Steve jerks his head up so fast his neck cracks. “I—my date?”

“Don’t people usually bring a plus one to these kinds of things?” Bucky’s scanning the room as if looking for someone. “Maybe that blond omega I saw you with at the clinic? He seemed… nice.”

Abruptly, Steve feels less like he’s on a rollercoaster and more like he’s trapped in a spinning teacup, the world rushing around him in a blur, making no sense. For a brief moment, he seriously questions whether he’s stroking out. But Bucky is looking up at him expectantly, and Steve shakes his head slowly, signaling his non-comprehension.

Bucky’s face sours. “You know, surfer hair, chiseled jaw…”

“Pietro?” Steve chuckles, finally finding his footing in this new absurd Wonderland he’s stumbled into where Bucky thinks he’s dating Clint’s mate. “No, he’s a patient.” He hesitates, inclining his head to the side, realizing the answer rides the hairline crack between truth and lie. “Kind of. It’s a long story.”

“The kind of long story _I_ would be?” Panic flares in Bucky’s eyes before he drops his gaze to his feet. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—it’s none of my business what you’re doing and who you’re doing it with.” With a shake of his head, he starts to turn away, and without thinking, Steve reaches out, wrapping his hand around Bucky’s wrist to stop his retreat.

“You think I’m…” Steve stares at his hand, fingertips blooming red before he blinks himself out of the shock of Bucky’s words and releases his hold. The red marks on Bucky’s skin fade almost immediately.

He hadn’t meant to touch without asking, but the thought of Bucky leaving thinking he’s sleeping with Pietro—with a _patient_ … but then, why wouldn’t Bucky think that’s his standard operating procedure? What has he done to show him any differently?

Steve drags his eyes back to Bucky’s face, finding so much uncertainty in those beautiful eyes he wants nothing more than to chase it away, make Bucky understand that it’s him— _only him._

“No, the kind that’s coming in for fertility treatments. Technically, Clint isn’t allowed to administer them since he’s Pietro’s husband, so I’m his doctor of record. I sign off on all the paperwork even though all I do is oversee the procedures.” Steve takes a hesitant step closer, searching for any sign of anxiety. But when Bucky doesn’t flinch away, Steve removes all but a whisper of space with his final step. “Bucky,” he murmurs, “what happened between us, I’ve never—I _know_ I should never have allowed you to stay that night. It was a mistake; I should never have put you in that position. But I need you to know that you’re the first patient I’ve _ever_ had feelings for, though I know it was wrong to act on them like that.”

The color drains from Bucky’s face. “I—uh, I’m sorry, excuse me,” he blurts, dropping the cookie on the table. He presses one hand to his belly and clamps the other over his mouth before rushing away.

Steve stands frozen, watching him go, heart pounding in his throat. In all the scenarios for this moment that had played through his head in the last twenty-four hours, he hadn’t anticipated this one. He places his own cookie back on the plate before letting curiosity and concern guide his feet.

Weaving in and out of the party guests—way too many for Darcy’s small apartment—he follows the path Bucky had taken out of the living room and down the narrow hallway, pausing outside the almost-closed bathroom door. The sound of retching echoes off the tiles, and he pushes the door open cautiously.

Bucky is on his knees in front of the toilet, scrubbing toilet paper over his lips.

“Are you alright?” Steve asks before instantly berating himself—if Bucky were alright, he wouldn’t be throwing up in Darcy’s bathroom.

But Bucky just tosses the soiled paper into the bowl before crossing his arms over the seat and dropping his head atop them with a groan. “Yeah.” His face is pale and sheathed in a thin layer of sweat when he turns it to Steve. “Something in my body just really hates me,” he says with a grimace before turning back to the bowl.

Steve’s shoes echo on the tiles as he steps inside and pushes the door closed behind him. A cloyingly artificial floral scent—Jasmine, if he had to guess—overpowers the small room, and he reaches up to open the window above the toilet to let in fresh air before dropping to his knees beside Bucky. Warmth greets his hand as he rubs soothing circles over Bucky’s back. The wave of nostalgia takes him by surprise, remembering doing the same thing the first day Bucky had come into the clinic. “Has this been happening for long?”

The tense muscles under Steve’s hand relax on a sigh as Bucky scrubs his head over his arms and mumbles, “Very new.”

“I have some anti-nausea medicine in my apartment. I could go and grab it if you’d like.”

“Nuh-uh,” Bucky groans. “I’m not sure what’s safe to have with, um, ah—” He surges forward, his back bowing under Steve’s hand as his stomach constricts and heaves.

Steve’s hand falters in its tracks as light bulbs illuminate and then explode in his mind. His lungs feel frozen in his chest, unable to inflate, hanging on the question screaming through him.

“Bucky, are you p—” Doubt stills Steve’s tongue. He’s being stupid; Bucky can’t be _pregnant_... can he? Well, he _could_ be—the amount of times Steve had… but, no. Bucky wouldn’t be sick so soon… unless. But.. _’something in my body really hates me’_ , feeling off, the visit to the clinic, the hand resting on his belly…

Oh, god.

_Oh, god._

_Bucky is carrying his pup._

Steve wants to scoop Bucky off the floor, lift him high and press a kiss to his belly—to the hidden treasure beneath. Wants to swing Bucky around until he’s laughing and giddy and lower him gently to claim those pretty lips, to ask permission to claim the rest of him, too.

Bucky’s pained groan steals Steve’s focus, and he hesitates only a moment before resuming the soothing motions across Bucky’s back. He opens his mouth and snaps it closed. He wants to shout it from the heavens, but he knows he can’t push—the last thing he wants is to make Bucky feel trapped or pressured; he needs to let Bucky tell him in his own time. Clearing his throat, he fights to keep his voice even. “Are you positive you’re okay? Maybe I should take a look at you.”

“No, it’s okay, I’m fine. I, uh, I know what it is, and I already have an appointment to deal with it.” Bucky lifts his head and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. His lips move again, but Steve can’t hear the words over the rush of white noise screaming through his head.

_'...an appointment to deal with it.’_

Steve rockets to his feet and stumbles back a step. He curls his trembling hands into fists by his sides, fighting to get his racing heart under control.

_'...to deal with it.’  
_

Steve’s heart is thundering in his head as the world darkens around the edges. Bucky couldn’t…. he _wouldn’t_ … would he? Without so much as a word? Does Bucky regret their night together so much he would go to such extremes to pretend it never happened?

The sound of rushing water finally breaks through his building panic attack, and he blinks rapidly, finding focus on Bucky at the sink rinsing his mouth. Color has returned to his cheeks, though he looks a little _too_ flushed now, making the dark circles under his eyes more pronounced. It looks like Bucky had been up all night, no doubt going over the options in his mind. But maybe he hasn’t considered _all_ of the options available.

“Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

Bucky gives him an odd look before his lips part, and Steve leans in, hanging on the silence, waiting for it to bloom into sound, but Bucky’s head jerks toward the door behind Steve as music and high-pitched giggling bounces off the tiles instead.

“Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

Steve doesn’t turn to see the intruder, keeping his eyes locked on Bucky’s face, still waiting on the answer. But Bucky’s skin just burns brighter as he shakes his head, pointedly avoiding Steve’s gaze. “It’s fine, I was—we were just leaving.” Eyes still focused resolutely ahead of him, Bucky rushes past Steve and disappears out the door.

Steve turns then, pushing past the giggling couple with a muttered apology he doesn’t feel.

The apartment is chaotic—people crammed shoulder to shoulder, and despite his height advantage over the mostly female guests, he can’t see his omega anywhere. Closing his eyes, he draws in a deep breath through his nose, allowing himself to be guided by the bond his body believes is already his. He finds the soured scent of Bucky’s distress quickly. He brushes past people as he follows the trail, too far gone even to try and dredge up empty apologies. The scent burns acrid as he passes out of the stale air of the apartment, and he opens his eyes to find Bucky halfway down the steps to his own.

“Bucky, _wait!_ We need to talk.”

A small distressed sound echoes in the stairwell as Bucky spins, clutching at the handrail as he teeters on the spot. His eyes are wild, edging into that same panic from the first day at the clinic, and Steve’s heart aches at the sight of him in so much distress. He moves toward the stairs but stops when Bucky takes a step back.

“Uh, yeah, I know, but, um…” Bucky takes another step. “The caterer throwing up in the client’s bathroom isn’t a great endorsement for the food, so I should probably go,” he babbles, taking another step away from Steve, knuckles white on the rail. “And I’m still not feeling the best, so I’m going to go home and sit on my own bathroom floor for a while,” he adds quickly, stumbling on the last steps down to his floor but catching himself with the rail. “But yeah—” Bucky nods as he shuffles backward, stopping only when his back connects with the solid wood of his door, “—talk later for sure.”

Steve takes the steps two at a time, but Bucky has disappeared into his apartment before he makes it to the landing. He raises his hand but pauses as the sounds of vomiting bleed through the door.

“Steve? Is everything alright?”

Steve jerks toward Pietro’s voice beside him, a new plan slamming into him. “Is Clint home?”

Pietro shakes his head. “No, he’s at the range. What’s going on? You look terrible.”

“No, I’m okay—I just—I have to go, Pietro. I’m sorry.” Steve runs up the stairs to his apartment, fumbling with his keys before getting the door open, then flinging it shut behind him.

He pulls the phone from his pocket and thumbs through his contacts until he finds Clint. The shrill ringing ratchets his anxiety higher, and he spits out a curse when the call goes unanswered and the voicemail message kicks in.

With the phone clenched in his hand, he starts pacing the living room, dredging up every medical possibility that could account for Bucky’s symptoms, but the words dissolve in flashes of Bucky’s hand on his belly, of him on his knees throwing up, of his lips wrapping around the words _‘a plan to deal with it’_ and something inside him shatters.

He should have told Bucky how he feels—in wanting not to push him away, Steve had lost him anyway.

Life has made a yo-yo of him with Bucky his string.

He can’t wander aimlessly in a minefield of what-ifs and could have beens—he needs answers, and the only one that can give those are…

Bucky.

Steve jerks to a stop and unlocks his phone. He presses on Bucky’s number before he has a chance to think himself out of it.

The racing of his heart fills the silence between the rings, thundering through his veins and pounding in his head. But after ten rings, the call disconnects, and Steve growls out his growing frustration before scrolling down his contacts once more.

Clint answers the call on the third ring. “Yello?”

“Is Bucky pregnant?”

Clint’s sigh is heavy, and Steve can picture the disapproving face on the other end of the line, but right now, he doesn’t care what Clint thinks; he has no room for anything but the dread crushing the air from his lungs.

“I am not having this conversation. God, what is wrong with you?”

“Fuck, Clint. Just tell me! _Please!_ ”

“Steve, you _know_ I can’t! You have risked the practice enough for both of us. We talked about this; I thought you were over it.”

“Over it? Over _him?_ What the fuck do you think, Barton? That these feelings would just go away because he did?”

“That’s not what I meant and you know it. I meant I thought you were over this fucking obsession, and that’s what this is, Steve. You’re acting crazy. I’m genuinely worried about you.”

“You know what I’m worried about? I’m worried that Bucky is pregnant and will terminate because he thinks I was only interested in a one night stand, or that I wouldn’t be up for raising a child with him, or whatever the fuck is going on in his mind. _That’s_ what I’m worried about.”

“Then maybe you should sack up and tell him that. Jesus. You don’t even know if he’s pregnant,” Clint retorts.

“Yeah, because you won’t fucking tell me!” Steve roars, wanting to scream and cry and put his fist through the wall. “If Bucky is pregnant, I have a right to know!”

Fury flares white-hot inside him—at Clint, at the universe, at _himself_. Especially himself. How had he fucked everything up so spectacularly? It’s like he’s made the wrong turn at every opportunity, and he’s gone too far astray, now unable to find his way back.

“Yes, you do,” Clint says after a moment, quietly. “But after everything you’ve taken from Bucky, do you want to take this as well?”

The words knock the fight out of Steve to find the fury was just a masquerade. Agony tears him to shreds, and he sucks in a shuddering breath as the world spins around him. He crumples to the floor.

Bucky must be terrified if he's going to such lengths to hide this from Steve, knowing that as the alpha parent, the final decision is Steve’s. He alone can decide what happens to the pup— _his pup_ in the eyes of the law. He could order Bucky to keep it, to bring it to term even without his consent, and when the baby is born, he could choose to raise it himself. Is that why Bucky hadn't told him? Doesn't he know that law or no, there’s no way Steve could ever force Bucky to do anything against his wishes—he would sooner sever his soul from his body with his bare hands. 

The strangled noise in his throat is more sob than sigh, but it speaks volumes.

“That’s what I thought,” Clint murmurs. “I’m sorry, you know I hate to see you hurting. You’re my best friend, and I’d do anything to help you… but this _won’t_ help you _or_ Bucky.”

“I know. I just…”

“You love him.”

“Oh, so all I had to do to get you to believe me was have a meltdown?”

“No,” Clint chuckles. “I knew it when I saw the way you looked at him in my office.”

“Too bad _he_ didn’t notice.”

“Are you so sure he didn’t? I can’t—” Clint sighs. “Look, just… give Bucky some time. If you push him too far too fast, it’s not going to end well—for either of you.”

Steve drops his head to his hands and groans.

“Shit, I’ve gotta go, P’s on the other line, but I’m serious, Steve. If you don’t let this go, you will hurt him, and then you _will_ lose him, and then you’ll be the one hurting.”

_Too late._

Steve disconnects the call and drops the phone on the floor beside him. He grinds the heels of his hands against his closed eyes. It’s easy for Clint to sit in judgment; he has his heart’s desire already in his arms. But even though Steve knows his friend is right, he’s not sure he could stay away from Bucky even if he wanted to.  
  
There’s something about Bucky that calls to him, like the omega has some kind of gravitational pull. Bucky burns as hot and bright as the sun, and unable to resist the warmth and light, Steve’s paying the price. He’d been too bold, flown too close, and now he’s falling… only this time, he’s not sure he’ll survive it.


	13. House Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Oh haiiiii thar, complete ticky box. So nice to finally meet you! Dude. Guys. People. It's done. \o/ We've come to the end of Steve's POV, which... holy shit, is almost more than double that of Bucky's. Oop. 
> 
> I want to thank everyone that came on this roller coaster ride with me, whether you voted for Steve's POV or not (but if you did, I hope it didn't disappoint!). I decided to axe one of the chapters (in count only, you didn't lose content, I just shoved them into one, it seemed to fit better together - just like Bucky & Steeb!).
> 
> ii. As always, I adore flailing and keysmashes and interaction of any and all varieties, either here or on tumblr @thewaythatwerust. I heart you all so much. Like.. really. Thank you for taking the time to read and comment and share your thoughts. Reader feedback really is grade A writer fuel, and your words inspire more words, so please continue to leave them (not just here, but for any story you read! I guarantee you are making someone's day or week or whole freakin' year by doing it, even if it's a heart emoji). <333
> 
> iii. This has been tweaked three times since the original posting, the last few paragraphs altered to re-add an accidentally axed love confession and the ending line changed. Ehh. I got no excuses except... I'm a human disaster. Big thanks to the anon on tumblr who let me know I'd made an oops. <333

"You realize a day off means you don't come to work, right? It's kind of in the name," Wanda says, staring at Steve incredulously.

Steve ignores the comment as he scans the empty waiting room. "The patient I called and asked you about this morning—"

"Comatose guy?"

"Bucky," Steve corrects automatically. "Has he arrived yet?"

Wanda nods. "Yeah, narcolepsy boy is already in with Clint. He walked, by the way, all by himself. Maybe there's something about you that just makes him—"

The rest of Wanda's words are lost to the increasing space between them as Steve forces himself to walk—not run—to Clint's office. He doesn't have time to think of what the hell he's going to say once he sees Bucky before he's face to face with the door. But he can't stop now—if he stops, he'll think himself out of it.

Steve raps on the door three times and swings it open while the third knock still lingers in the air. He's not waiting for an invitation, not with this much on the line.

With _everything_ on the line.

"Sorry to interrupt, Clint, but I need a moment with Mr. Barnes before you continue if that's alright?"

The confusion clouding Clint's face darkens into stormy disapproval immediately. "Steve, we're in the middle of an appointment."

"I know, I'm sorry, I wouldn't interrupt if it weren't important. Bucky, it's about your last… seeding." Steve trips over the word, though technically, it's not a lie. "It'll only take a moment if that's alright?"

Rage simmers in Clint's eyes as he shakes his head minutely. His voice is low and calm, but the warning rings clear. "This really isn't appropriate."

"Uh, no, th-that's fine," Bucky says quickly. Wide eyes dart between Clint and Steve, color washing over his cheeks.

Clint's disapproval is a physical weight crushing down on Steve's shoulders, but he can't surrender this one chance he has to stop Bucky from making the biggest mistake of both their lives.

The tension in the room coils tighter as Clint stalks forward slowly, and Steve battles the impulse to step back, to let Clint claim dominance and ease the strain their friendship has become. But Bucky is worth fighting for, so Steve holds tight to the fraying seams of righteousness and meets the stare pinning him in place.

Stopping only when their chests are almost touching, Clint glances pointedly at Bucky and back again. "Talk quick, Rogers," he mutters. "I'm giving you five minutes before I'm coming back in and kicking you out." At Steve's nod of understanding, Clint lowers his voice. "And remember what we talked about, yeah?"

Clint's condemnation and anger are clear—a muscle ticks over his jaw, and the fists at his side turn in a slow arc—and Steve knows his best friend wants nothing more than to lay hands on him and force him from the room, for his own sake as much as Bucky's. But long term affection conquers all else, though not without casualties, and Clint checks Steve's shoulder hard as he passes.

The soft click of the door is followed instantly by Bucky's anxious voice. "What are you doing here? How did you even know I was here?"

Steve should have expected it, but the question catches him off guard, his lack of forethought coming back to bite him already. "I checked the appointment list. I'm sorry, I know that was overstepping, but when you said you'd made plans to, ah, deal with it, I knew I had to talk to you first. I realize this isn't the most appropriate way to do it, but I've tried calling you and came by your apartment after the party, but…" The weight of the world—of his future—rides Steve's shoulders as he shrugs. Of the long list of lines that have been blurred or crossed, this has to be the least egregious. Still, that's small comfort seeing the anxiety twisting Bucky's face. "This was a last resort."

"Oh, sorry. I kind of crashed hard last night after the whole…" Bucky mimes throwing up before grimacing and dropping his hands. He twists them together in his lap, his anxiety palpable. "I guess I didn't hear you knock, and, I uh," Bucky's eyes edge wide before falling to his feet. "I don't answer unknown numbers, sorry," he mumbles.

The rebuke to Bucky's excuse is acid on Steve's tongue, but he swallows it down and nods slowly. Either Bucky is lying and didn't want to talk to him, or he's telling the truth and hadn't recognized the number because he'd deleted Steve from his phone. Both options eat away at the odds of this conversation ending well, but Steve has to try. He'll never forgive himself if he doesn't.

"Look, I know this is none of my business, except that, I think, in a way it might be…" Steve swallows thickly. Faced with Bucky's silence and expectant gaze, he struggles to find words that don't feel wholly inadequate against the backdrop of hope and dread waging war in his chest. He wrings a hand over his nape as frustration bleeds out into his body with each beat of his heart.

Bucky blanches. "D-did you look at my medical records? The ones from my first visit with Clint?"

"I don't have access to another doctor's notes on you now that you're no longer my patient," Steve says more sharply than he intends. The bite of Bucky's choosing another doctor—another alpha—is still fresh, the pain grating at his already frayed nerves, but the question provides direction and the push he needs. "I've been going around in circles since the party, and I just wish you'd told me what is happening. You don't have to do this if you don't want to." He puts every ounce of earnest conviction into his voice that he can, needing Bucky to hear the truth, to understand. "There are other options… You don't have to go through this alone."

Shock slaps Bucky's face before it turns hard. "Actually, the whole point of this appointment, Steve, is that I _do_ have to go through it alone."

Steve can see Bucky disappearing right before his eyes, retreating into the darkness that hides behind those bright eyes. "This is your choice, Bucky," he says slowly. "It's your body, and I know it's your decision, but I'm willing to help, if you'd let me."

"Jesus, Steve," Bucky snaps, "you're the whole reason I'm in this mess; I think you've helped me more than enough." He runs his hands through his hair before balling them into fists, eyes squeezing shut as he tugs at the dark strands, pain twisting his beautiful features. His shoulders rise and fall slowly as he drags in a calming breath. Remorse swims in his eyes as they fix on Steve. "Shit, sorry. I'm sorry, that was unfair. I just… I feel like I'm on a carousel every time I'm around you—up, down, spinning, off balance—and it's just… driving me crazy. I can't do it," he says sadly. "If you… help, it's just, it's going to make it worse."

The pain in Bucky's voice rips through Steve's gut, and he knows, just like that, the two feet separating them might as well be a million—an insurmountable abyss with the shards of his heart littering the ground between them. Bucky has made his decision, and no amount of pleading or promises from Steve will change his mind. If anything, it will probably only distress him further.

With two leaden steps, Steve is beside Bucky. He hesitates a moment before placing his hand on Bucky's shoulder, immeasurably grateful when he doesn't flinch away. Whether a glutton for punishment or just unable to deny selfish desires, Steve needs this, to feel Bucky's warmth rushing to kiss his palm, knowing it's the last time.

"Hey, it's okay. And you're right, it is my fault. I'm sorry." He squeezes Bucky's shoulder gently, trying to funnel so much feeling through too small a touch. He lifts his hand and curls it into a fist, trapping the lingering feel of Bucky against his skin. "I'll tell Clint to follow your wishes, and I'll sign the required paperwork after the procedure," Steve adds quietly. His last gift to Bucky—sparing him the indignity of having to ask for permission or beg forgiveness.

Steve turns away, moving numbly toward the door.

"Wait… what procedure?"

Bucky's hesitant voice makes Steve pause, but he can't look back, knowing he's not strong enough to walk out the door if he does. He tucks his head to his chest. Does Bucky think he doesn't know? Or is this a way to punish him? "The abortion."

The word tastes bitter in Steve's mouth as it falls and hangs in the air between them, weighing down the already heavy silence that follows it.

"Steve, I'm…" Bucky's voice is barely audible in the small room, "I'm _not_ pregnant."

Steve spins so fast the room blurs around him, and his heart pounds so hard in his throat he feels like he's going to pass out. He blinks at Bucky, mouth falling open wordlessly, taking in the confused look on Bucky's face. “You’re _not?”_

Bucky rubs his hands over his arms, now crossed over his chest, and peers at Steve curiously. "Why would you think that?"

"The appointment, the timing, you were throwing up, and said you had a plan to deal with it…"

"No, I…" Bucky shakes his head. "It's my, uh, h-heat suppressants. They don't agree with me. Clint is going to try me on another type."

Vertigo shunts the dread from Steve, leaving him reeling. The sudden relief knocks the breath from his lungs and the steel from his bones, and he stumbles backward. The door catches him as he sags, and he plasters his palms against it to stop himself sliding to the floor.

 _Bucky's not having an abortion. Bucky's not pregnant._ Opposing threads catch and pull inside him, salvation and yearning tearing him in two. But Bucky's words pierce the storm of emotion, and Steve's brows knit together as he tries to process Bucky's admission. "Wait… you're on suppressants?"

"Yes."

"Why?"

"Because I need them," Bucky answers evasively.

"But your next heat isn't due for months."

"Yeah, well, my body doesn't know that," Bucky mutters. He's fidgeting again now, twisting on the seat, his anxiety pushing a sour scent into the air.

Steve knows he shouldn't press, but concern loosens his tongue and drives him on. Had he missed something? "I don't understand."

"I don't either," Bucky flares, cheeks burning bright. "But it's like I'm stuck in some neverending heat cycle. I can't stop thinking about that night, about you, and my body is just…" His face pinches in frustration. "I feel like I'm going crazy. I can't keep climbing the walls, trying to find relief that I'm never going to get on my own. Normally, I would go out and find the nearest available knot, but that's not what I…" Bucky breaks off, driving his teeth into his lip, and a shiver races down Steve's spine, realizing that _he_ is the nearest available knot. Bucky sighs heavily. "I just thought maybe suppressants would, I don't know, suppress… whatever is broken inside me."

Steve's breath catches in his throat. "Why didn't you say something?"

"And be the pathetic little omega trailing after you, begging for your knot? Draping myself all over you like Darcy? No. I just—no. That's not me, Steve." The red burning in Bucky's cheeks spreads down his neck, but his eyes blaze defiantly. "Look, I'm not stupid, I know if I'd never walked into the clinic that day, I never would have ended up in your bed _that_ night. And you didn't even want me there." He laughs, hollow and harsh, full of regret. "I took advantage of you. You told me to leave, repeatedly, but I begged you to let me stay. If I hadn't, you would have found someone else to manage your rut, and you'd never have known who I was, not really. I'd just be some mystery neighbor that bakes cookies that you'd pass in the stairwell occasionally and nod politely to before going on your way. And I know that's all I'll be from now on, and that's fine. I've made my peace with it… or, I will once I get my fucking body under control."

Bucky's words explode like fireworks inside Steve's head, and his whole world spins off its axis, the unexpected confession taking him from falling to flying so fast he's struggling to keep up. Somehow, he'd gotten everything so impossibly wrong-- but it doesn't matter, because everything right is sitting in front of him saying the words he had only dreamed of hearing.

"Bucky, it's not—"

The door swings open, and Clint steps into the room. "I heard raised voices. Is everything okay in here?"

Steve scowls at his best friend. If there are medals for the worst timing in the world, Clint would be draped in gold. There's no way he could have heard anything from the soundproof room, but Steve can't call him on it without looking like a petulant child. "Everything's fine. We just need a few more minutes."

Clint glances toward Bucky before shaking his head. "I don't know what's happening here, but you've had your five minutes. Now, I think it's best you leave, Steve." He holds up a hand as Steve opens his mouth to protest. "If Bucky wants to talk to you again, he knows how to reach you."

Having his moments snatched from his grasp has Steve swinging like a pendulum from elation into irritation. "Jesus, Barton, just one more minute!"

Clint barrels into the room, stopping only when his body is a physical barrier between Steve and Bucky. "I warned you about this," he growls menacingly. "Whatever Bucky is or isn't to you, he's _my_ patient, and I have to do what's best for him. And right now, that means having you leave, willingly or not."

Steve growls right back at his friend. Clint doesn't understand—he can chase the distressed look from Bucky's face if only given one more minute. He can fix everything. "Bucky, please…"

The familiar coldness shutters Bucky's eyes before he lowers them to the floor and turns away, lost in the belief that he'd been nothing but a plaything for Steve to use and discard. "Goodbye, Steve."

Steve clenches his jaw and takes the dismissal with as much grace as he can muster. He doesn't want to do this in front of Clint—he needs a chance to explain without interruptions or external judgment. And it's okay; it can wait— _he_ can wait—now that he knows how Bucky feels.

 _Bucky wants him_. It's all he needs to know.

With a curt nod to Clint, Steve leaves the office quickly, pulling the door closed behind him, a new plan already sprouting in his mind.

_Bucky wants him but thinks he doesn't feel the same way._

Steve heads for the front door with single-minded purpose: he's going to plant himself outside and wait for Bucky. There'll be no more misunderstandings, no more biding his time, he'll shout his feelings at Bucky's retreating back if he has to, but come hell or high water, the sun will not set again without Bucky knowing how he really feels.

"Oh, hey, Boss, I was just coming to get you—"

Steve shakes his head, moving past the reception desk without pausing. "It'll have to keep, Wanda. I've got something I have to do."

"Yeah, that's not really an option."

"I'm sorry, whatever it is, it'll have to—"

"Jane's gone into labor, and they're on route to the hospital," Wanda blurts.

Steve stops, two steps shy of the front door, and twists back. "When?"

"I just got off the phone to her. She's asking for you."

"Fuck." Steve scrubs a hand through his hair, staring down the empty hallway. Given how things have played out between him and Bucky up to now, he should have known better than to spend his time making plans; the universe has seemingly delighted in his suffering, he's not getting a happily ever after without a fight. "Call her back, tell her I'm on my way."  
  


. . .  
  


Steve tucks his head to his chest, letting the hot water wash away the soap suds from his body, along with the suffocating stain of the hospital—the sheath of sweat and stress and counterfeit composure—that clings to him like a second skin every time a life hangs in the balance. Or two lives, as was the case tonight.

But his words of reassurance had held, and after hours of emergency surgery, Jane and her baby boy had pulled through. However, Steve's plans for confessing to Bucky had died as the clock ticked over from tonight into tomorrow.

Steve shuts off the water and steps from the shower, feeling clean but no less exhausted. He rubs a towel over his body before letting it fall to the floor, then kicks it toward the hamper—another problem for tomorrow. He doesn't bother with clothes, just pads to his bedroom before falling like a stone into his bed. The familiar softness is a balm to his aching muscles, but the cold sheets are an inescapable reminder of how much more comfort his bed held when Bucky was curled up next to him. Using his legs to draw up his blanket, Steve cocoons it around him tightly, closing his eyes against the empty pillow beside him. His last thought before sleep claims him is, as always, of Bucky.  
  


. . .  
  


Tugging his shirt hem down with one hand, Steve uses the other to grab the canvas frame before heading for the door. His eyes are still gritty with sleep, and his stomach is protesting his decision to skip dinner last night and breakfast this morning, but he's not wasting another second without telling Bucky how he feels.

Steve's breath stagnates in his chest as he takes the stairs two at a time, and only when he's standing outside Bucky's door does he finally exhale. No matter the outcome, even if Bucky never wants to see him again, he has to do this—he can't keep Bucky laboring under the false impression that he's just another patient or neighbor or omega. Bucky needs to know he is so much more than a means to an end. He deserves that at least.

The sound of his hand falling against the wooden barrier separating him from Bucky breaks the wall caging his anxiety, and he's suddenly acutely aware of how much hangs on the conversation he's about to have—the conversation he has not prepared for in the least.

"I can't cook," Steve blurts before the door is even fully open.

Bucky's face goes slack in surprise. "Steve? What are you—"

Steve shakes his head quickly. "No, please. Let me just… I need to say what I came to say if that's okay? I'll stay and listen to whatever you'd like to say after, or leave straight away if that's what you want, but I need to say this." Too agitated to remain still, he shifts on his feet as his hands twist the canvas now gripped in both hands. Bucky hesitates, and Steve's heart stutters, waiting for the door to slam closed in his face. But Bucky nods, and the fingers of panic wrapped around Steve's throat loosen enough to push more words free.

"I can't cook, or don't cook, I guess. I usually grab lunch from the cafe down the street when I'm at work, and dinner is picked up on the way home or ordered in once I get there. Breakfast, when it isn't the most amazing pancakes being hand-delivered by an even more amazing chef is usually a protein bar or a cup of coffee. I mean, I can microwave things, but with med school, I never really had the time or energy to invest in learning how to cook well, and after, it was just easier to leave it to the people who had. Uh, this isn't…"

Steve huffs out a frustrated breath. Why the fuck didn't he practice what the hell he was going to say—the last thing he needs is for Bucky to think he wants him solely because he can cook.

"I went to buy you breakfast that morning. That's why I wasn't there when you woke up. There were things we needed to talk about, and I thought food, good food, food beyond my ability—" Steve offers a wan smile "—would make it easier, less awkward. And I thought you needed something in your belly other than, uh..." _Come and slick._ He coughs roughly, his cheeks and cock fighting for the lion's share of his body's blood supply at the thought.

"Why did we need to talk?" Bucky asks quickly. His own cheeks bloom into color as if sharing Steve's thought. "Is it—did I do something wrong?"

Steve gapes at him. "God, no, Bucky, I did. I am so sorry. I was selfish, and I know I… I hurt you." The truth of the words steals his bravery, and he lowers his gaze, unable to hold Bucky's. "I should never have let you stay. I should have picked you up and carried you outside and locked the door. It's just… having you under my hands, against my skin, asking me to..." After a deep breath, Steve drags his gaze back up. Though still wanting to hide, he's unable to resist the lure of those expressive eyes, knowing they hold the answers he so desperately seeks. If Bucky blames or resents him, that beautiful face will tell him the truth before any words are spoken.

"And then I couldn't control myself, and I acted so..." Memories of what he'd said and done rush through his mind, making him cringe, but he needs to lay all his cards on the table. If Bucky rejects him, it won't be down to miscommunication this time. "I'm so sorry I wasn't strong enough to do the right thing. I wanted to tell you all this that morning, but when I got back and found my bed empty, I thought that's why you left. But then at the clinic, what you said…"

Bucky's features are a mask of confusion, staring at him as if waiting for the other shoe to drop, and Steve falters.

"Here." He turns the canvas and lifts it toward Bucky.

Bucky takes the painting, staring down at it for a moment, recognition lighting his eyes before he shakes his head and holds it back out to Steve. "I can't take this."

"I want you to. Please," Steve adds earnestly. "It's a gift." The tightness in his chest eases as Bucky softens, trailing trembling fingers over the frame in an achingly delicate way.

Bucky turns, eyes still on the canvas, and carries it back into his apartment. He sets it down, propping it against the couch before straightening. The seconds tick by as Steve stares at Bucky staring at the painting—Bucky as captivated by the art as Steve is of him.

When Bucky finally turns and makes his way back to the door, there's a small, sad smile on his lips. "Thank you, Steve. I love it."

"I've wanted to give it to you since the day you brought me pancakes, but I thought I should wait. I wasn't sure giving you a personal gift while seeing you in a professional capacity was the proper thing to do."

"Makes sense," Bucky mumbles, the saturation in his cheeks increasing.

Steve chases the flush as it spreads down Bucky's throat, longing to pull the omega close and follow the path with sweet kisses. He opens his mouth, but the words on his tongue are formed by lust not lucidity, and he snaps it closed again. He can't get distracted. Pulling in a deep breath, he pushes his train of thought back on track with considerable effort.

"When I got back, and you weren't in bed, I could smell your soured scent. I knew you were upset, so I came down here. I knocked on your door, but you didn't answer. And then I remembered what you said about it not meaning anything, scratching an itch—" he grimaces, the words sour on his tongue "—and I figured the distress must have been regret, and if you wanted anything more, you would have opened the door."

Bucky blinks before his gaze retreats inwardly, going somewhere Steve can't follow. His brow pinches tight, but he doesn't rebuke the statement, and Steve hastens to continue, not wanting Bucky to interject and knock him further off-balance.

"But then what you said at the clinic made no sense, because you're wrong. That painting, I made it for you… it _is_ you. I saw you on the fire escape the night I moved in. I did notice you, Bucky. I've been noticing you—your baking, your impromptu midnight karaoke sessions—" Steve smiles at Bucky's wince "—the way you always help old Ms. Phillips with her groceries. But you weren't like the other omegas—" Steve shakes his head as Bucky wraps his arms across his chest, a defensive gesture as he starts to withdraw into himself. "—no, I mean that as a good thing. You didn't come sniffing around, propositioning me, treating me like I was—" Steve sighs, unable to find the right words. "You were just different. Indifferent, independent, intriguing. I wanted to ask you out, but I, ah, I was worried you'd say no. In my head, if I didn't ask, you couldn't say no, and that meant there was still a chance," he chuckles self-deprecatingly. "But then, when you called the clinic for an appointment, I realized I'd lost my chance. I couldn't date a patient."

"But you slept with Darcy," Bucky blurts, eyes narrowed in accusation.

The words send Steve reeling. "Why would you think I slept with Darcy?"

Bucky frowns up at him. "You left with her that night I introduced you, and the next morning you were doing the walk of shame. I caught you as you were coming home, remember?"

Steve shakes his head slowly as a million tiny dots connect—belatedly—in his mind, and Bucky's assumptions and actions suddenly become a lot clearer. "Bucky, I didn't spend the night with Darcy. I'm not interested in her in that way at all."

"But you didn't stay in your apartment." Bucky draws the words out slowly, uncertainly. "So, if you weren't with her, where were you?"

Steve hesitates. How does he tell Bucky he'd planted himself outside his door and fended off unwanted advances from unscrupulous alphas without sounding like a stalker?

"You're hiding something." Suspicion winds around every syllable of Bucky's words and forces Steve's hand.

"I didn't spend the night inside my apartment; I spent it outside of yours."

“What? _“Why?”_

"Because I needed to make sure you were safe. You didn't want to stay with me, but I couldn't bear the thought of someone taking advantage of you, of hurting you."

Bucky bristles, squaring his shoulders and notching his chin higher. "I can look after myself."

Amusement and frustration burst bright inside Steve, and he throws up his hands in exasperation. "Bucky, you don't even lock your door."

"I do so... sometimes. When I remember," Bucky mumbles, cocking his head to the side.

The streak of white on Bucky's neck grabs Steve's focus, and he watches it dance as Bucky swallows. He wants to… but he can't. He can't get distracted, not again.

"I haven't slept with another patient. I've never even been tempted," he declares honestly. "The things we did at the clinic, that's never... I've never done anything like that before. I need you to know that. But when you were on the table, asking me to help you… after dreaming about you for so long, it just broke me. You shattered every wall I put up; they just crumbled under my feelings for you," Steve says quietly. "I know I probably overstepped again, staying outside your door that night. I'm not perfect; I tend to let my heart get me into trouble my head has to get me out of later. And after everything that's happened, the things I said and did... I don't know if I deserve a second chance, but I'm being selfish again, and I'm asking for one." He lifts his hand, holding it palm out to Bucky. "May I take you to breakfast? I would very much love a fresh start if you're willing to give me one."

Bucky stares mutely at his offered hand. Time stretches thin, threatens to break—and shatter Steve's heart along with it. Every second is swallowed in frantic heartbeats and free-falling hopes until Bucky looks back up at him and shakes his head slowly. "I don't want a fresh start with you."

The words slice through Steve, severing the gossamer strings of hope and the weight of Bucky's rejection crushes in on him. "Oh." He starts to lower his hand, but Bucky reaches out and slips his into it.

"I want to _continue_ what we have. I don't want to pretend the other night didn't happen. That night was incredible; I've never felt so..." Bucky trails off with a small smile. "And you didn't hurt me, not really, not in any way that counts." He takes a deep breath, and the smile fades. "But I'm not the perfect, cookie-cutter omega. I won't come when called and fall to my knees because someone wants me to. I need you to know that what happened that night, that's not how—I don't usually submit, not like that. You showed me I could if I wanted to, but if you want an omega who will be like that all the time…"

"I don't," Steve interrupts, hearing that cold distance creeping into the cracks of Bucky's voice and wanting to stop him from pulling away—physically and emotionally. "I'm not usually so... "he winces, unsure of how to put name to his actions, "but none of that matters. I want you, just as you are. You're not a cookie-cutter anything, it's one of the things I love about you." He freezes, realizing he's said the one word he'd been sure would scare Bucky away, but there's nothing but hope and happiness blazing in Bucky's eyes.

"Okay," Bucky whispers.

The quiet word echoes inside Steve, and suddenly he's teetering on the edge of a cliff, ready to fly but afraid the ground is about to crumble beneath his feet again. "Okay, what? What are you saying, exactly? Spell it out for me, so I know we're on the same page, good or bad. The last misunderstanding nearly killed me."

"I'm saying that I've never felt this with anyone. I trust you. That night, I know you were just taking what you needed, but you gave me what I needed, too. More than just, umm..." Bucky reaches up to rub at his nape, giving Steve a knowing look. "But that's not the only thing I need. I want more than that. I want all of you, I want _everything_. I want to spend lazy days curled up watching you paint, and have you taste test my baking. I want to introduce you to my friends and meet yours. I want a place in your life and to fit you into mine. And I want to be with you, just you. I want to be the one, the _only_ one, giving you... giving m-my alpha what he needs."

Bucky's words paint an incredible picture in his mind—everything he has dreamed of being offered up to him like a gift, but it's the last sentence that captures his imagination most vividly, the words he's craved to hear spilling over Bucky's lips, and the reality of it is sweeter than any fantasy. "Your alpha?"

Bucky's teeth bite into his lip, pressing pretty marks into it as he nods slowly, eyes wide and dark.

"I like the sound of that," Steve growls.

Bucky's lip springs free of its enamel prison as he tugs on Steve's hand. Steve accepts the silent invitation and follows Bucky's lead, toeing the door closed behind him.

"But you're not taking me out for breakfast. I don't want to share your orgasmic pancake-face with total strangers," Bucky says, voice firm, all early hesitation gone. He nods toward the kitchen. "Besides, I'm making pancakes myself, this time with syrup and whipped cream."

Steve's eyes flick to Bucky's neck, a smile curving his lips as understanding dawns. "So that's what this is," he murmurs, leaning down to collect the errant cream with his tongue. Enjoying Bucky's soft sound of surprise, Steve swallows the cream and hums thoughtfully. "Not as sweet as you."

"Uhh, you keep doing that, and breakfast is going to take a lot longer to make," Bucky says thickly, dark desire swallowing up light eyes.

Releasing Bucky's hand, Steve threads his own around Bucky's waist and tugs him close. His stomach's vote for food had been disregarded on the way down to Bucky's apartment, and now, given there's something even more delicious than breakfast on the menu, other parts of his anatomy are standing up to be counted. "How long does it take to make pancakes?"

"Um, t-ten minutes," Bucky stammers, melting against Steve's chest.

"Too long." Steve husks out. "You know how much I love your cooking, but right now, I have a different kind of sugar craving. All I want this morning is my perfectly sweet omega wrapped around me and in my arms. What do you say, sweetheart? Wanna play doctor with me?"

Bucky's face floods with color, but he wraps his arms around Steve's neck and nods fervently.

Steve chuckles at the gasp that shocks from Bucky's throat when he lifts him into the air, cradling the omega against his chest, but the laughter dies on his lips, reborn into a hungry growl as Bucky nuzzles at his scent gland. The feel of Bucky's teeth catching his earlobe has Steve's pace eating up the short distance to Bucky's bedroom quickly.

"That depends, Doctor. I have a problem here—" Bucky grips Steve's hand and guides it from its anchor under his thigh up to his ass. Steve curses as Bucky grinds into the touch. "—it's so wet and achy whenever my alpha is near me, and I just don't know how to make it go away. What would you prescribe?"

Bucky's high, innocent voice has Steve's cock fat and throbbing, and possessiveness roars through him. "Me. _Only_ me from now on, Bucky," Steve growls. "I'll give you everything you need, sugar. Always." He rubs the dampening fabric of Bucky's thin pajama pants, finding the sensitive spot that makes Bucky moan before straining forward into Steve's space.

"Sounds perfect," Bucky whispers into Steve's mouth before sealing the promise between their lips.

Bucky gives himself into the kiss, surrendering so sweetly, and no fantasy Steve has ever had comes close to the reality of Bucky's lips on his. He tries to memorize the feel of Bucky's mouth, the heat, the taste—all while pouring all his yearning and desperation into Bucky's mouth and taking Bucky's in return, swallowing down the soft whimpers until he's drunk on them.

It's Bucky who breaks the kiss, sucking wet gasps into his heaving chest, squirming against Steve's teasing fingers. “Oh, Steve, _please_.”

"Such an impatient little thing," Steve chuckles. "And here I thought that was just because of your heat."

"I'm allowed to be impatient; I've been waiting for this moment for a thousand years," Bucky grumbles.

"Days, Buck. It's been _days_." Steve's heart is so full he's sure it's going to burst as he lowers Bucky on to the bed, but somehow his body just expands to make room for the surge of emotion.

"That _felt_ like years," Bucky retorts with a pretty pout.

Steve's chest rumbles with happiness again as he taps Bucky on the nose gently. "Well, you're in luck. I'm not going to make you wait any longer."

Steve peels the sodden pants down Bucky's hips slowly. He can't stop the approving moan that slips from his lips when he finds nothing but skin beneath. "Fuck. How are you so beautiful?'

He pauses in his task, leaving the pajamas bunched around Bucky's thighs to trail his fingers down Bucky's already wet cock, tracing the prominent vein running the length of it before curving around his balls, continuing the path down, dragging through the glistening liquid on pale thighs.

Bucky scrubs his head on the pillow, cheeks on fire as he stares up at Steve through heavy-lidded eyes. "M'not. You don't have to say that," he mumbles." I know you've seen a lot of guys naked." At Steve's raised brow, Bucky shakes his head again. "I, uh, I mean, you know, 'cause you're a doctor."

"And have you seen many male omegas naked?" Steve asks casually as he wraps his hand around Bucky's cock. It fits almost wholly in his hand like it was made for him, only the tip of the flushed head peeking out of his loose fist.

Bucky's hips jolt off the bed. "Uhh, n-no," he answers breathlessly.

"No, I didn't think so." Steve moves his hand, jerking Bucky's cock lazily, enjoying the velvet touch of skin shifting in his palm, the sweet scent of arousal flooding the room. "I've seen thousands of guys, you're right about that, Buck, but you're wrong if you don't think you've got the most goddamn gorgeous cock I've ever seen. Longer than average, thicker too, and so fucking pretty, just begging to be kissed. In fact..."

Steve sinks to his knees and bends over the bed, taking the whole of Bucky's cock into his mouth in one swift move. The weight on his tongue is perfect, and the taste coating his mouth as he suckles at the flesh in his mouth so uniquely, perfectly _Bucky_. His knot throbs as he forms a tight seal over the rigid shaft, dragging up the length of him to suck fiercely at the head, burrowing the tip of his tongue into the leaking slit as far as it'll go.

 _“Ahh!_ Steve!”

Steve takes the rough slide as Bucky's hips thrust up, fucking into his mouth, guiding Steve with short hair trapped in clenched fists. Steve plants his hands on Bucky's trembling thighs, struggling to spread but foiled by their fabric bindings. His thumb dances across the sensitive skin of Bucky's inner thigh, humming around the twitching cock driving over his tongue, feeding vibrations into it as he swallows it down, delighting in the desperate whimpers tearing from Bucky's throat.

Much too soon, pain bites at Steve's scalp as the fingers in his hair urge him up.

 _“Nononono!_ Stop! You’re gonna make me come—I don’t want—not yet. _Fuck!”_

Steve pulls off, letting his tongue drag over the underside of Bucky's cock, dipping into the sensitive notch under the head before he pulls away completely. "I thought you wanted to come, Buck? Isn't that what you've waited _years_ for?" he teases.

Bucky swats Steve's shoulder. "No, wanna come with you inside me," he groans.

"Hmm, well, let's get you out of these pants then."

Steve straightens, hooks his fingers in the bunched fabric, and drags the forgotten pajama pants down, humming approvingly as his omega lifts his legs to help. The plum-red t-shirt is next, and Bucky raises his arms and waits. Steve's alpha instincts fire up at the submissive display. He inches the shirt up over Bucky's torso, fingers trailing over curved ribs, through the dark hair of his armpits and up the length of his arms, watching goosebumps bloom across warm skin in the wake of his fingertips.

Steve drinks in the sight before him greedily—a mess of hair fanned across the pillow, wide eyes, bright and dark at the same time, flushed skin burning from rosy cheeks stretching toward pebbled nipples, and that gorgeous cock hard and leaking on Bucky's belly. But a muffled sob breaks him from his blissful trance and he looks up to find Bucky's face and the wet tracks curving over flushed cheeks.

"Buck? What's wrong?"

Bucky ducks his head, pressing his chin to his chest, hiding from Steve's concerned gaze. "S'nothing. Just... being stupid."

"Look at me, Bucky. Please." Steve tips Bucky's chin up with a finger, waiting until watery eyes lift to his. "You can tell me anything.  _ Anything _ . I’ll  _ never _ think it’s stupid.  _ I promise. _ ”

"It's nothing. I just… I never thought I would have this again."

"Have this…" Steve frowns. "Have  _ me?" _

Bucky nods. "I thought after that night … that I'd never feel this again… what I feel when I'm with you. You make me feel… I don't know," he hedges, "p-precious and safe and… somehow... just...  _ whole _ . I know it's silly."

Cupping Bucky's face, Steve runs a thumb over his jawline. It makes him ache thinking about how much pain he caused Bucky and resolves to spend the rest of his life atoning for it, making sure his words and actions do nothing but bring pleasure from now on. “You _are_ precious, and safe, _always._ I don't want to…" Steve hesitates, but his words, like his feelings, refuse to be contained. "I know this is soon, much too soon, probably, and god, I hope I don't scare you, but Buck, I am falling hopelessly in love with you. I've never felt more _right_ than when I'm with you, in your arms, in your body—you're just… _home._ " He blows out a shaky breath. "You are a vision, Bucky Barnes. I'm half afraid that you're going to disappear the second I close my eyes and I'll wake to find this is nothing but a dream. But until then, I'm going to be greedy and take and savor every second you give me."

Bucky's eyes well up and spill over, but there's nothing but happiness in the watery smile. "I'm not going to disappear," Bucky whispers. "I promise. But you..." he shakes his head. "Steve, will you promise me something?"  
  
Curiosity flickers inside Steve but he nods slowly, knowing he could never deny Bucky. "Anything."  
  
"If you—I mean, after this, if I fall asleep, and you go out for any reason, just... leave me a note, okay?"  
  
Steve chuckles at Bucky's wry smile. "I'm yours, Bucky Barnes, all yours, and I'm not going anywhere—not without you."  
  
Bucky wraps his arms around Steve's neck, leaning close, pressing their foreheads together. "Promise?"  
  
The answer comes easy to Steve, but it might as well be set in stone—it's an oath he knows he’ll never break. He still isn't sure if soulmates are real, though he can't otherwise account for how he'd known the minute he'd set eyes on Bucky that his life would be forever changed. But he doesn't need to question the hows or whys now—Bucky is in his arms, and whether they were destined to be, or they'd found their way together through sheer, dumb luck, Bucky is _his,_ and Steve's going to do everything in his power to keep him—safe, happy, and loved. Forever.  


"Promise."


End file.
